The Language of Pain
by Brighid45
Summary: The sixth story in the Treatment series: House spends the summer at Gene and Sarah's place. What will happen? Plenty of angst, humor, and some OC romance! AU to S6/S7 canon storyline. Please read & review, thanks!
1. Chapter 1

_**(A/N: here we go with another story in the Treatment series. I've been hard at work for a while on this, and have to admit the season six finale threw me for a loop when I was halfway through the first chapter. It took a few days to pull out of a disbelieving, soul-shattering funk after the last five minutes of the episode, but I've got a handle on it now. Plenty of Al Green and cold, cold tequila was involved in the process, but hey, whatever works. Anyway, hope you enjoy this new fic. It's probably going to take some time to get chapters hacked out, but I'll do the best I can to not keep you waiting too long for new posts. As always, if you are so inclined, please leave a review on your way out, it would really make my day. --B)**_

_June 11__th_

_9:30 a.m._

When Greg opens one eye, it is to find sunlight streaming through his window. Slowly he rolls over, stretching a little, and takes a few moments to savor the lack of pain upon awakening. He still appreciates the fact that there is no sharp stab, no cramping, no hard spasm when he shifts his leg into another position.

He lies in his comfortable bed, watching dust motes float in the still, bright beams. In the past three months he's had to re-learn his daily routine. For the most part it's been a good experience. He's more active now, less chained to meds; he feels better, sharper, more clear and focused than he has in ages. And yet he cannot escape the fear that all this is temporary. He has bad dreams about finding the TENS unit unresponsive, turning up the settings until the electrodes burn him and he's in agony. When he wakes, gasping and covered in sweat, he discovers it isn't true—the pain hasn't conquered technology. But maybe someday it will, and he'll be forced into surgery; and if that doesn't work . . .

On a sigh he pushes himself up and swings his legs around, scrubbing his face with his hand. With care he stands, flexing stiff muscles and joints, and puts on his old plaid bathrobe as his empty belly rumbles.

The kitchen is silent. On the table stand a dozen half-pints of homemade strawberry jam, placed with care atop a folded tea towel, put there the day before to cool after processing. Greg passes them by to check the stove. Sarah's been trying to get him to eat oat bran instead of his usual cold cereals. Secretly he kind of likes the stuff; with butter, toasted walnuts and a little brown sugar it's not too bad. Outwardly he gives her a hard time of course, enjoying the snark they trade. But this morning he bypasses the pot of oats waiting to be cooked. A half-loaf of bread sits on the cutting board, face-down to keep the open end from drying out, a second testament to her recent presence.

Greg frowns, surveying the quiet cooking area. After a few moments he goes into the mudroom and looks through the back door's small window. In the bubbled wavy glass he sees Sarah sitting in her garden in the weathered old windsor chair she salvaged from someplace or other. Her back is to him, but the set of her shoulders, the downward tilt of her head, tells him she is in some kind of emotional distress.

The knowledge makes him uneasy. His first impulse is to walk away; he doesn't do well with this sort of situation. There is nothing he can say, no action he can take that will make whatever's wrong better, or change what is; anyway, his presence has never been considered calming or beneficial by anyone. Still, he opens the door and goes into the yard, his limp a bit more pronounced because of the uneven terrain. He advances slowly, entering Sarah's peripheral vision as he perches on the tree stump used for splitting firewood. She does not acknowledge him. He doesn't take offense at this; Sarah is the only other person he knows besides Gene who doesn't feel the need to fill silence with empty speech.

Finally however, Greg is compelled to say something. "Pretty day," he mumbles, and winces at the idiocy of the remark.

"It's a beautiful day." Her voice is thickened by tears, but she sounds calm, resigned. It makes him angry.

"She's not worth this," he says, more sharply than he'd intended. "Mourning her is pointless. It won't make anything different. It won't make what she did go away."

"I'm--I didn't mean . . ." She hesitates. "I had the radio on earlier, and they played 'Twilight Time'. It was a favorite of Mom's. She always seemed almost happy, singing that song."

In the perfect recall of his aural memory he hears the Platters, the melody unwinding, slow and sweet and tender. "So she had a few molecules of human decency in her after all."

For a long time Sarah doesn't speak. "My mother had a hard life," she says at last.

Again he feels a surge of annoyance alloyed with frustration. "What the hell does that mean? She didn't get a special toy for Christmas one year and it turned her into an abusive druggie bitch who hated her kids?"

"She was abused too." Sarah wipes her cheek with the back of her hand. "There were times . . . we were never close in any way, but now and then she would get just drunk enough to loosen up . . . she had to tell someone. Guess talking to me was better than nothing." She says nothing for a few moments. "After she ran away from home and got pregnant at the age of sixteen she didn't have anyone else, no friends, not ever. Dad made sure of that."

Greg thinks of his own childhood, how other mothers at whatever base they were on at the time held birthday parties and bridge nights, garden club meetings and weekend barbecues. His mom never hosted parties or meetings, nor did she attend more than a few gatherings. Dad had made it clear there was no point in getting friendly with anyone; his career came first, and that meant frequent moves. Now in retrospect it seems as though Mom simply gave up because it was easier than fighting for something she knew she'd never have anyway.

Sarah looks at him. She is not overwrought, though her sadness is palpable. "She didn't get a chance to be someone else—someone different. No one ever gave her that. Later, when she might have changed, she couldn't. I feel grief for what she never had."

"One song started all this?" he asks. Sarah looks down at her hands. In the morning sunlight her curls shimmer with red and gold sparks of light.

"It got me to thinking of her . . . just wish we could have talked one last time before she died," she says. "I would have listened, if she'd let me."

There is nothing he can say that won't be cruel or meaningless. Instead he rises and turns away, goes back to the house.

When Greg returns later it is to find the chair empty and the garden deserted. He peels off his tee shirt, loosens up with some slow windmills, then picks up the ax he brought out with him and grabs a log from the big pile by the tree stump. He sets the log on the stump, takes careful aim and splits it cleanly in half. The halves are then split again and stacked. This is a chore he's been able to take on thanks to the TENS unit, though he still has to be careful about not putting too much stress on his bad leg or standing too long in one position. At first he couldn't last past fifteen minutes, but now he can put in a solid hour and not feel like he's going to plotz. His hands are callused, he's got a bit of muscle tone in his back, shoulders and arms at least, he's no longer fish-belly white from being inside all the time—but best of all, he can lose himself in the pounding of his heart, the pumping of blood through his body, the rhythmic swing and hard, jarring thump of the ax. He's missed the way strenuous physical activity allows him to not think if he so chooses.

But he has to be honest with himself—he's out here to escape rather than work out. Roz is wiring the office and he doesn't want to be around her.

In the last month or so, something between them has changed. Well, to be fair, it's mainly his perception of her that's different, as far as he can tell. Prolonged and unavoidable close proximity has made them more familiar with each other, if not friendlier. They still trade acerbic, even cruel one-liners, but to his horror he's finding he anticipates her quick, accurate wit and fearlessness. She says things to him no one else would dare to, not even Sarah. He finds it refreshing, but he'd never tell her so.

"Hey." The object of his thoughts stands in the doorway, shading her eyes. "Sarah says come in and give it a rest, she has lunch ready."

Greg lowers the ax and wipes his arm across his forehead. "Yeah, okay."

Roz turns to go, then sneaks a glance at him. "Nice tan," she says, and gives him a cheeky grin before she disappears into the kitchen.

The radio is on when he comes in. It's an oldies station. Greg gives Sarah a hard stare as she takes a pitcher of iced tea out of the fridge.

"It's all right," she says without looking at him. "They play good stuff."

A few minutes later he hears the opening bars of 'Lollipop'. Sarah brings a platter of sandwiches to the counter, singing under her breath. Greg takes a roast beef on rye and catches Roz giving Sarah a sideways look full of some sly emotion he cannot fathom. Sarah glances at her, then at him, then back at Roz. She sings a little louder as she goes back to the fridge, her hips swaying in time with the music. Greg frowns at her and Roz in turn.

"What's so funny?" he asks. Roz only picks up her sandwich and takes a big bite, her eyes on her plate, but he can tell she's trying hard not to laugh. He grabs his plate and heads into the living room, aware he is being teased but unwilling to figure out exactly how. After a moment he hears the two women giggling like a couple of schoolgirls. He hunches his shoulders and turns on the tv to drown them out.

It is late afternoon, after Roz has gone home for the day, when the front door bangs open and Gene comes in, duffel slung over one shoulder. He looks tired, but he gives Greg a smile as he drops the duffel by the stairs.

"She's in the kitchen," Greg says. Gene nods and heads in the general direction indicated. As he passes the couch he pauses.

"How are your pain levels?" he asks. "Need any adjustments?"

"Oh, don't tempt me," Greg says. "Go find your wifey before my paper-thin resolve falls through." He grabs his leg. "Too late! Hand over the morphine and no one gets hurt!"

Gene chuckles and goes into the kitchen. "I mean it!" Greg yells after him. "Take me seriously or millions will perish in a horrible plague of terminal farfalitis!"

"I'll bear it in mind," Gene says. A moment later Greg hears Sarah's voice, light with happiness, and then silence. _Dinner's gonna be late tonight,_ he thinks. _Wonder if they've done it on the table yet. Now's their big chance. That means I'm dining out here though, major ew factor in play, literally.  
_

Much later, after the welcome-home meal has been eaten and the leftovers cleared away, when shadows are slanting across the lawn, he inspects Roz's progress. The room's still a mess of course, but he is impressed by how much is finished. It is more than obvious Roz knows exactly what she's doing; the work is precise, painstaking and rock-solid. When everything is ready they'll have an office of which any CEO would be proud.

Music purls through the quiet house—a tune he knows well, soft and sweet. As stealthily as he can Greg moves into the living room, staying close by the stairwell so he won't be noticed, and also to see into the kitchen. By the golden light of the pulldown lamp Gene and Sarah are dancing. They hold each other close; Sarah's head rests on Gene's shoulder, while Gene holds her with long, strong arms. It should be cloyingly sentimental, this little domestic scene, but Greg knows what is happening. Sarah is making a memory to follow the one that already exists when she hears this song, a memory she can use to ease remembered pain.

In silence he leaves them, pushing away the old deep ache of longing he always feels when he sees couples together. He can barely remember what it's like to hold someone close, to murmur quiet words together, to know the sweetness of mutual desire, but that's no reason to intrude on someone else's moment. He goes to his empty room and closes the door, leaving the last of the light behind him.

_'Twilight Time,' The Platters. _


	2. Chapter 2

_**(A/N: this chapter got hammered out between making batches of strawberry preserves and the Lost finale, so if it's on the ham-fistedly obvious side, you have my apologies. I intend to make Monday my regular posting day from now on-thanks for the idea, Diva in the House!-so the next chapter will be a little longer in coming, but perhaps will be of better quality.**_

_**Anyway, look for the little Highlander in-joke, and when you think of Roz, you should be hearing girl groups singing in the background, 'cause that's what I listen to when I write for her. The Shangri-Las rule! **_

_**Enjoy, and if you are so inclined, please leave a review on your way out, it would really make my day. -B)  
**_

_June 18__th_

_7 a.m._

"So how come you're still workin' that job at the Goldman's?" Kyle sliced open the shipment box.

Roz pulled the laces tight on her workboot. "Not done yet." She didn't look at him.

"Shoulda been finished three weeks ago." Her boss pulled out an inventory sheet. "What's takin' so long?"

"It's an old farmhouse," Roz said.

"You did Bob's barn in two weeks flat." Kyle began to pile coils of solder on the counter. "I think it's that old guy stayin' with Gene and Sarah. He has his eye on you and you don't mind."

"He's not old," she snapped, then closed her mouth. _Great, now he'll blab it all over town you're screwing the Goldman's house guest. Good goin', dumbass._

Kyle snorted. "He's got twenty years on you, give or take." He leaned against the counter, watching her. "You that hard up? That's not what I hear."

"You hear a lot of stupid shit. Don't believe it. And it's only fifteen years." Roz stood and grabbed her toolbox, willing herself to stay calm. _You get mad and you show it, you give him what he wants. Don't do it._

"Well, I don't care what piece you're tearin' off on the side, I want that job done by the weekend. There's other stuff waitin' that won't keep." Kyle tossed the empty box toward the back of the stockroom. "Don't mess with me on this, Rosie. I mean it."

Roz didn't answer him. She walked out of the store, her shoulders squared and her head up, as her grandfather had taught her.

On the way to Gene and Sarah's she stopped off to pick up a cold Coke and a bagel at the bakery. Money was tight, but she wouldn't allow Sarah to feed her both breakfast and lunch.

"You still workin' at the Goldman's?" Rick put a pumpernickel with cream cheese in her bag, along with two fresh cinnamon twists. Roz scowled at him.

"Knock it off," she said. "Can't afford all that."

"Hey, it's on the house. This way you can share something else." Rick gave her a wink. She snatched the bag and stalked out, her face burning. _Damn small town. They all think because they know my mom, they know me. Everyone in this miserable hellhole needs to get a freakin' life._

The house was quiet when she pulled into the drive. She parked next to Minnie Lou and hopped out, taking a deep breath as she stretched and yawned. It always felt so good to be here, away from the knowing looks and snide comments that followed her all over town. In Sarah and Gene's home she was just Roz, a friend and nothing more.

Sarah was in the kitchen, kneading a batch of dough. She glanced up as Roz came in, a smile brightening her face. "Hey, sis!"

"Morning." Roz put the bakery bag on the counter. "Rick sent over some twists."

"Damn that man, he's makin' my hips spread like warm butter." Sarah opened the sack and removed a twist. "You don't have to buy breakfast, you know."

Roz took the bagel and removed the slab of cream cheese, then popped the two halves in the toaster oven. "I'm thinking I'll be done by Saturday," she said, her back to Sarah.

"Lollipop will be sad to hear that," Sarah said, her tone mild. Roz spun around, ready to lash out, and found her friend giving her a conspiratorial look with arched brows, her lips twitching. Roz's anger melted, leaving behind nothing but laughter.

"Did he ever figure it out?" she asked, after they'd both run down to occasional chuckles.

"Hasn't said anything to me," Sarah said. She gave the dough a slap and covered it with a tea towel. "He really doesn't know he's dishy."

"'Dishy'?" Roz took one of the bagel halves out of the toaster. She thought about how she'd found Greg in the yard chopping firewood in the morning sun, his chest and arms bare. He wasn't musclebound, that was for sure; he was tall and rangy with slight love handles, though his shoulders were broad enough to balance things out. Add a lived-in face and thinning hair, and 'dishy' wasn't the word that immediately came to mind . . . but damn if Sarah wasn't right. Roz recalled the power of his long arms as he brought the ax down, the way his hips flexed, the casual strength in his hands as he tossed the split wood to the side. There was something about the way he worked, the intensity of his concentration, as if he put everything he was into that one action. The memory gave her a strange little shudder down her spine.

"Hey, you can't expect me to be up on the latest slang," Sarah said in protest. "How about . . . pretty fly for a white guy?"

Roz snorted as she spread cream cheese on her bagel. "Give it up, you geezer. You're hopelessly uncool." She took a sip of Coke and almost choked as Greg spoke behind her.

"If she's a geezer what does that make me, the world's oldest man or something?" His rough voice held annoyance and amusement in equal amounts. Roz turned and gave him a look, willing her heart to stop pounding. He leaned against the counter in his wrinkled tee and sweats, hair sticking up and bags under his eyes, but that odd grace was still present, creating a strange feeling, as if there wasn't enough air in the room.

"It makes you the oldest person here," she said, and took a defiant bite of her bagel.

"My god, she knows how to add in base ten," Greg said. "But only with her boots off."

Roz swallowed and brushed a crumb from her shirt. "I passed my algebra class with a four point average," she said. "I can do a lot more than count." She glanced at him. "How often do you use all those stupid courses you took in college, Mister Big Shot?"

"You'd be surprised, but don't let me spoil your unreasoning prejudice against white collar workers." Greg reached out to snitch the bakery bag. "Twist or cruller?"

"If you're too senile to figure it out I'm not gonna tell you," Roz said. She took the other half of her bagel from the toaster oven before he could appropriate it and left the kitchen.

She was deep in the middle of a pointless redo of the inset for a junction box when Greg appeared in the doorway. He leaned against the jamb, arms folded, his sharp gaze pinned on her. Roz pretended not to notice him.

"You should have been done with this job a while back," he said. "Why are you hanging around?"

"What do you care?" She didn't bother to lie to him; he'd just see through anything she said that was untruthful. She'd found that out about him early on, and wouldn't admit even to herself that she liked him for it. "I'm not charging them overtime, and anyway you're not out of pocket either, cheapskate."

"Inquiring minds want to know why." He came into the office and dumped a bundle of wires out of his chair, then sat down.

"Hey!" Roz glared at him. "I don't need you in here!"

"You don't want to go back into town," Greg said. He stretched his bad leg with care, then turned those observant blue eyes on her once more. "So which is it—you're the village slut or someone's mistake?"

The pain took her by surprise. She froze, then looked away. _Don't let him see. Don't let him know._ "Both, actually," she said, and was proud of her flippant, light tone until she realized she had a death-grip on the screwdriver in her hand. Very slowly she loosened her fingers.

"When did you find out?"

"Mom told me." Roz closed her eyes, remembering. "But I already knew something was up. My sisters are big dumb curvy blondes with blue eyes."

"Dark hair, green eyes, different body type," Greg said. "Your father had them all."

She nodded, turning the screwdriver over and over in her hands.

"So what about the other label?" Greg tilted back in the chair. "You're spectacularly ill-equipped to follow in Mom's footsteps."

Roz felt the hurt bite deep. She set the screwdriver aside. "Yeah, no curves here," she said, but it was harder to be offhand now. _I know I'm skinny and nothing to look at. You don't have to rub it in._

"Which leads me to believe you've been saddled with a reputation you've neither earned nor deserve." He paused. "By the way, don't be so eager to show the chinks in your armor. It's counter-productive, not to mention self-defeating. You've decided who's won the battle before it's even fought."

She opened her mouth to reply, some scathing retort that would settle his hash once and for all, but he was already headed out of the room. The familiar thump-step faded as he moved away. Roz was surprised to feel the sting of tears. She blinked a few times and wiped her eyes with her fingers, then picked up the screwdriver and began removing the junction box case, forcing herself to concentrate on the pointless task at hand.

She ate lunch in Roz's garden, peeled down to her tank top with pants rolled up, boots and socks cast aside as she soaked up the sunshine. It was a bad idea; she always turned browner than a burnt cookie after even five minutes outside, but who cared? So she enjoyed the warmth, the faint music coming from the kitchen and Sarah singing along, the peaceful buzzing of the bees as they robbed nearby borage plants of their nectar and pollen, and savored her cold pasta salad.

"Practicing your counting?" Greg stood in the doorway. He came toward her slowly. "You'll create a whole herd of melanomas if you don't cover up." Roz shrugged her shoulders and forked up a bite of artichoke heart and farfalle. Greg sat on the tree stump a few feet away. She knew he was watching her.

"Tough girl." He said it quietly. It was not a compliment.

"You're not exactly sensitive new-age guy material yourself," she snapped. "So shut up."

"I've earned the right to be an asshole," he said. "You're too young for the size of the chip on your shoulder."

"Yeah, well I don't go by what you think and never will," she said. "Keep your opinions to yourself."

To her surprise he chuckled. "Do you know what an _Echinus_ is?" he asked. Roz threw him a cold glare.

"You know I don't."

"It's the Latin classification for a sea urchin. They're lethal-looking, but when you cut one open they're nothing but fluff under those nasty spines." He got to his feet. "Put on some sunscreen next time," he said, and went back into the house.

At the end of the day Roz sought out Sarah. "Have to tell you," she said, looking at the floor, "I was done with this job three weeks ago."

"I know," Sarah said. Roz gave her a sharp look.

"Did Greg—"

"Nope. I figured it out about two weeks ago." Sarah was smiling, her green eyes filled with affection. "You don't need a reason to hang out, sis. You're always welcome any time. I enjoy your company, and so does Gene."

"I notice you left someone out," Roz muttered. Sarah chuckled.

"Greg doesn't mind having you here, though he might like you to think otherwise." She put a hand on Roz's shoulder, light and comforting. "Stay for dinner. It's movie night tonight."

"It won't do your reputation any good," Roz said. "It's one thing to have me working on your place—"

"I don't care." Sarah was still smiling, but something changed in her gaze, turning it almost steely. "I make my own friends." She gave Roz a gentle squeeze. "Go home and get cleaned up, then come on back. You can stay over if you want to. In fact I'd love to have you spend the weekend, if you want."

Roz gave a hesitant nod. "Okay. I'd like that."

She loaded her stuff into the truck, feeling something like happy for the first time in ages. When she got into the cab, she caught a glimpse of someone standing at the window next to the front door. It was Greg. He watched her, his brilliant gaze unreadable. She stared back at him for what seemed an eternity. Then she started the truck, backed out and headed down the drive, trying to push the thought of him out of her mind.

_'Remember(Walkin' in the Sand)', the Shangri-Las_


	3. Chapter 3

_June 18__th_

_7 p.m._

"So what's the movie tonight?" Gene opened the fridge and took out a cold brew. "It's your turn to choose."

Sarah pushed a curl from her forehead and sipped her ginger beer. "What did we watch last time?"

"_Five Million Years to Earth,_" Gene said, popping the top off the bottle. "A classic."

"I wouldn't know, since I couldn't hear the dialogue over someone's comments about the crap science involved in the moronic plotline," Sarah said, her tone dry. Gene laughed.

"Choose something he'll enjoy."

"I'm not watching porn." Sarah shook her head at him when he laughed again. "You think I'm kidding? He probably has the largest collection of filthy movies on the East Coast. Including Manhattan."

"Well, If you're thinking chick flick, forget it," Gene said. "Neither one of us will sit through _Sense and Sensibility_ or _The Notebook._"

"Since when have I inflicted anything even remotely romantic on you? I'm a realist. I just watch them by myself." Sarah set down her ginger beer and picked up the colander full of drained pasta. She dumped it into a large bowl.

"Then go with music." Gene took a long swallow of beer. "_Blues Brothers_."

Sarah nodded. "That'll work. Cartoon first?"

"Of course." He moved close and put an arm around her waist. "Leave it to me."

She tipped her head back to smile up at him. "Don't I always?"

"No." Gene gave her a smirk, his dark eyes gleaming. "But I don't hold it against you, because after we fight we get to kiss and make up."

Greg finishes putting on a clean pair of boxers and pulls a tee shirt out of the freshly-laundered stack in his chest of drawers. It's a new favorite he picked up online a month ago, a subtle gold and silver foil design over solid black. He tosses it on, runs his fingers through his hair, and resists the urge to check his look in the mirror.

_What's the big deal? _he grumbles at himself as he makes sure the pads around his thigh are secured with no gel oozing out anywhere before he puts on his jeans. _It's just a movie night. _But he knows what's going to make this one different. Roz is staying for the weekend and she'll arrive tonight, in time to join them for the festivities.

_It's stupid to think she cares about what you look like. She can't stand you anyway. _He grabs his cane from its usual spot dangling from the molding next to the door, and limps into the living room. It's warm and muggy despite the vertical fans moving air in cross currents; a storm front's coming in.

Greg goes into the kitchen to grab a beer and is treated to the nauseatingly sentimental sight of Gene and Sarah in a clinch. "If you can break a dollar I'm next in line," he says.

"Nope. I bought all her kisses for myself," Gene says. He gives Sarah a light, lingering salute on the lips and walks out of the kitchen, a spring in his step. Greg rolls his eyes.

"Don't you people know you're supposed to be jaded and indifferent to each other by now?" he complains. Sarah laughs.

"I think your boxers are too tight," she says.

"Just being realistic," he says. "I'm not wearing undies, by the way. Strictly commando." He says it just to get her going. Sarah gives him a dry look.

"Thanks for the warning. Other people might go through marriages or girlfriends like kleenex," she says, moving to the counter. "That doesn't mean we have to do the same."

"I'd pay to see you go through a few girlfriends." Greg takes a long swallow of beer; deflecting is thirsty work. Sarah shoots him a narrow glance as she mixes a little more mango chutney mayonnaise into the pasta salad that will be tonight's second side course for the cold salmon being served, in deference to the hot weather.

"What's got you so nervous?"

"Nothing," he says, a little too quickly. He winces inwardly at his blunder, knowing there's no way she'll miss it. Sarah says nothing though, just turns her attention back to the salad.

"Okay," she says. Her acquiescence makes him suspicious. He decides to do a little probing.

"Ahah. _Now_ it all becomes clear. We've got a visitor coming to stay and you think she and I . . ." He lets the sentence trail off. Sarah does not take the bait. She just grinds a little black pepper into the bowl.

"What else should we have tonight?" she asks, sounding a bit distracted. "I think there are enough strawberries to make shortcake."

Her lack of interest irks him. "You set this up deliberately," Greg says. "You think I'm that desperate?"

That elicits a response. "Didn't set anything up," Sarah says. "Grab some bowls from the cupboard for me, please."

She is being truthful; he knows her tells by now, but he can't resist the urge to push the limits just to see what he'll get.

"I don't need anyone," he says, setting the bowls on the counter. "Never have, never will."

"Didn't say you did." She holds out a spoonful of pasta salad. "Taste this and tell me what's missing."

"Gene already told you, why ask me?"

"He said more cayenne. I'm not going by the word of a known chile-head." She gave him the spoon. "Taste, please."

Greg takes the spoon and eats the bite of salad. "Nothing a little jerk wouldn't fix," he says, and waggles his eyebrows suggestively. Sarah laughs. He takes just a moment to enjoy the sound.

"I'm surrounded by smartasses," she says, flashing a grin at him. "Fine. Go help Gene set up stuff. If you don't like your supper it won't be my fault."

Greg hands her the spoon and heads into the living room just as someone knocks at the door. He keeps moving, curious about what he'll find when he greets their visitor.

Roz is waiting on the step, a small overnight bag in hand. She is wearing a hunter green sleeveless blouse and flowered capri pants, her narrow feet tucked into flipflops. Her thick dark hair falls to her shoulders; through the waves he can see two small silver hoops adorning her ears. She even has a bit of makeup on, some soft color on her lips and above her eyes. Greg stares at her. This isn't at all what he'd expected. She is something approaching pretty; it is an amazing transformation . . . until she scowls at him, her eyes dark with annoyance.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," she says, her tone sardonic. She tilts her head a little and her hair swings over her collarbone, the ends curling as they brush her golden-brown skin. "You gonna let me in or not?"

In silence he stands aside. She walks by him and brings with her the fragrance of just-cut hay—their neighbor Bob made first clearing on his pasture this afternoon. The scent of it shocks Greg into stillness, sends him back into a dream he's tried hard to forget for months now. In desperation he pulls up a memory of Roz crouched in the office, her hair pulled back in a utilitarian and unflattering ponytail, hands smeared with dust as she fastens an outlet face plate in place. The contrast is sufficiently startling until he remembers the way she focuses on one thing to the exclusion of all else, her economy of movement, her precise work. _Not a transformation_, he thinks with some resignation, _more like another facet. Damn. _He closes the door and follows her inside.

[H] [H] [H]

Roz parked her truck and turned off the engine. She sat in the cab for a few moments, listening to the engine tick as it cooled. It wasn't too late; she could still turn around and go back to town, pleading illness or an emergency job.

_But I don't want to._ She'd been looking forward to this weekend since Sarah had invited her. It wasn't often that she had someone invite her out for so much as a burger and fries, let alone to stay over for a couple of days.

_You sound like such a loser,_ she thought. _Stop feeling sorry for yourself and go inside._ She grabbed her overnight bag and hopped out.

Predictably, the one person she'd hoped wouldn't answer the door was the one who did. Greg stood staring down at her, that piercing gaze of his fastened directly on her lack of cleavage. Roz fought the urge to cover herself with her hand. She wasn't willing to admit he looked good with sun-kissed skin and silver-gilt hair, his lean frame highlighted by his black tee and jeans, so she glared at him instead.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," she said. When he didn't move she tilted her head. "You gonna let me in or not?"

He seemed to come back to himself and eased out of her way. As Roz passed by she caught a glimpse of his face, saw something there, some flash of emotion that disappeared before she could figure out what it was.

[H] [H] [H]

When he comes into the kitchen, Roz is offering Sarah a bottle of wine. He sees the label before it changes hands.

"Schug Carnelos Pinot Noir," he says, impressed despite himself. "The 2005 vintage. You didn't get that at the local liquor store."

"I have my sources." Roz shrugs, but he can tell she's not displeased that he recognizes the wine for what it is—a great mid-price Californian burgundy-style red that will pair well with Sarah's supper.

"Who bought it for you?" he asks. Roz throws him a cool look.

"Me, myself and I," she says.

"Roz's grandfather had a vineyard," Sarah says. She sounds amused. "There's not much she doesn't know about wine. I've learned a lot from her." _And so could you_, he can hear her thinking. He offers her a smirk.

"Excellent. When's dinner?"

Throughout the meal Greg slips in questions during the general conversation—innocent-sounding little queries about wine meant to make Roz show her real ignorance. By the time they are on second helpings he knows she's not faking it. She answers everything he asks correctly and without hesitation; in fact she might even be better informed than he is on Australian chardonnays, a subgroup he's always dismissed as cheap swill. It is disconcerting, having this sarcastic slip of a woman toss around a term like 'clonal diversity' with the ease of someone who knows exactly what it means. It doesn't fit with what he knows of her—untraveled, unsophisticated, unschooled. Not that she isn't intelligent, but _this_—this is like finding a gem in a pile of plain river stones.

"You haven't asked me anything in five minutes." Roz's voice interrupts his musings. "Run out of steam?"

"You seriously expect me to believe your grandfather was training you to become a sommelier?" Greg makes sure his tone is openly derisive.

Roz takes a sip of the pinot noir. "I don't expect you to believe anything." The little silver hoops in her earlobes gleam in the soft lamplight; her moss-dark eyes hold cynicism and a kind of bleak, knowing humor he understands too well. _She thinks I think she's stupid_. He almost ducks his head on the rush of shame he feels, but stays strong and keeps an impassive expression plastered on his face.

"Greg's traveled the world," Sarah says, much to his surprise. She sits back, her gaze steady on him.

"Were you in the military?" Roz asks.

"Nope." He stares into his glass. _Quid pro quo. Fine. Might as well get this over with. _"Military family. We moved around a lot."

Roz nods. "That can be a tough life."

"What do you know about it?" he snaps. "You've never been anywhere else but Happy Valley." He pauses. "Except Buffalo. Bet all the tall buildings there gave you a stiff neck."

"It wasn't all that happy," Roz says. "Besides, there were a couple of kids in my class who were Army brats. I saw how hard it was for them."

He searches her comment for any trace of pity or sympathy but there is only a statement of fact, much the same way Sarah says things. "Wimps," he mumbles, and resists the urge to stick his tongue out at Roz when she gives him a slight smirk. _She has dimples,_ he thinks, and pushes away from the table. "Movie time."

Gene pauses with a bite of salmon on his fork. "Shortly."

Greg goes into the living room and claims his easy chair. He listens to the sound of the others conversing and laughing together. He wonders for a few moments if they're making fun of him, but dismisses the thought—even if Roz tried to, Gene and Sarah would put a stop to it; still, despite the nasty barbs they hurl back and forth, he doesn't think Roz is the type to indulge in gratuitous or passive-aggressive mockery. She'd do it to his face, just the way he likes it.

A brief time later, when the dishwasher is chugging away and the food's been stored in the fridge, everyone comes into the living room. Much to his astonishment, Roz plops down in the second easy chair right next to his. He frowns at her.

"Do you have to sit there?"

"Hey, it's a free country." Roz kicks off her flipflops and leans back with a soft sigh. "This is comfortable."

"There's a whole couch," he points out.

"If I took it that would leave only one other chair for two people who want to sit together," she says. "Stop making trouble."

He snorts. "I haven't even begun . . ." He falls silent as Gene comes into the living room and turns on the tv.

"Have to start with a cartoon of course," Gene says. "By popular request, I give you one of Chuck Jones's best interpretations of Wile E. Coyote and the Roadrunner's endless battle of wits."

"Booooo!" Sarah calls, laughing. "Popular request, my great-aunt Fanny!"

"What about My Little Pony?" Roz says. She is smiling, Greg can tell. "What about Rainbow Brite? Or the Smurfs?"

"Recount! Recount!" Sarah hoots. Gene mock-glares at her.

"Girly stuff is not included in the voting categories," he says. "Everyone knows those cartoons are stupid. Only Looney Tunes, anything on Adult Swim and Ren and Stimpy qualify as classics." He holds up the remote as the protests begin again. "I have spoken. Settle down and watch or leave."

"'I have spoken,'" Sarah mimics when Gene sits next to her. "Boy howdy, I married a pompous ass and never even knew it."

"Learn something new every day," Gene says, unperturbed. He slides his arm around Sarah's shoulders, clicks the remote and the title animation for 'Stop! Look! And Hasten!' comes up.

It's a great cartoon; soon everyone is laughing and comments fly back and forth. _This is interesting_, Greg thinks. He's beginning to feel a bit more at ease in communal events like this one, though he still knows all it will take is one nasty remark from him to alienate everyone in the room.

"What are you worrying about?" Roz's soft whisper brings him out of his thoughts. "Relax and have a little fun for once, it won't kill you."

"Yeah, 'cause I desperately need you to tell me what to do," he growls.

"Is it really that hard to enjoy yourself?" She shakes her head. "I thought I was a tough case."

He doesn't answer her as the cartoon ends and the movie starts. When the view of south Chicago's refineries comes up Roz claps her hands and cheers, while Sarah gets up and leaves the room. She'll be back; she's getting dessert. The little kid in Greg delights in this ritual, watching movies and enjoying a sweet treat of some kind. His dad would never have allowed it, ever.

"I love this movie!" Roz sounds genuinely happy. She sits up in her chair, her hair swinging around her face as she tucks her legs to the side and leans toward him slightly.

"Oh god," Greg groans, but secretly he is once again pleasantly surprised. After his encounter with her in the supermarket, he'd expected her to be fairly shallow in her musical choices.

Halfway through Joliet Jake signing for his possessions, Sarah returns with a tray full of strawberry shortcakes piled high in bowls.

"Cool, thanks," Roz says as she accepts hers. "You know Rick wants your recipe." She digs out a big strawberry with her spoon and pops it into her mouth, savors it with eyes closed for a moment.

"Yeah, I know." Sarah hands Gene his bowl and sits next to him, setting the tray on the coffee table. "Maybe I'll divulge it one day, but then my grandma Bailey would haunt me. What a horrible thought."

"No off-topic conversations. Just watch the movie," Greg says around a mouthful of whipped cream and berries.

"That's good coming from you," Sarah says, but she's smiling.

They are just past the gospel sequence with James Brown when a low rumble of thunder fills the room. Gene pauses the movie. "We'd better check the weather radio," he says, and gets up to bring Sarah's back with him.

"_A severe thunderstorm warning has been issued for the following counties . . ._" The mechanical voice rattles off a list, and their county is included. "_At eight p.m. a line of strong storms was shown on radar moving east-southeast at thirty-five miles per hour. Anyone in the path of this storm should seek shelter immediately. Quarter-size hail, damaging winds and frequent cloud-to-ground lightning are associated with this event. Rainfall totals could reach one inch in localized areas._"

"Dammit," Sarah says. She looks exasperated. "I just put my tomato plants in this morning!" She gets up. "Go ahead without me."

Gene starts the movie and stands. He moves across the room to give the remote to Greg and leaves without comment. A few minutes later they hear thunder again.

"Maybe we should wait to watch the rest of this," Roz says.

"Where's the fun in that?" Greg asks. For once he's not being sarcastic. It's enjoyable to sit in the gloom with a good movie on the tube while a storm passes overhead.

"Okay," Roz says with a shrug. "We can restart when everyone's here again."

"Their loss," Greg says. Roz turns to look at him. In the semi-darkness her expression is one of speculation.

"Why do you work so hard to be a jerk?" she asks quietly.

"Don't have to work at all," he says with false cheer. "It's a natural talent. Unlike yours, which—"

Without warning there is a flash of lightning, followed by a deafening boom of thunder. The power goes out and they are plunged into blackness. Greg is about to say something like "There's an oil lamp in the kitchen" when two small callused hands come up on either side of his face, turning it gently. When soft lips press against his he goes still, hardly daring to draw breath. He can feel Roz trembling just a little, her breathing uneven. It occurs to him that she is afraid, but still willing to risk rejection to get what she wants. He can't help but admire her boldness; he opens to her, just to see what she'll do next. Her slender thumbs caress his jaw as her tongue strokes his, shy but determined. It's a total cliché but she really does taste sweet, like strawberries and wine; her touch makes his heart flip like a freshly-caught fish in a basket. He breathes in the scent of her, clean and faintly floral, and closes his eyes, surrendering himself to the moment. _What the __hell__ are you doing?_ the rational voice in his head demands. He ignores it and keeps on kissing her.

Of course it doesn't last, good things never do; Sarah comes into the kitchen with some kind of light, even as Greg hears his cell phone ringing. With reluctance Roz lets him go, but not before she caresses his cheek and trails her finger over his lips. He gets to his feet without looking at her and limps to the bedroom, sweetness lingering on his tongue.

The phone and charger are buried under a pile of dirty tee shirts. He rummages around, finds what he's looking for finally and hits display to find the last caller. The name pops out at him like a lightning bolt: WILSON, JAMES E. He stares at it, thunderstruck for the second time that night.

"Jesus H. tap-dancing Christ," he says softly, and speed dials the last number.

'_He's So Fine,' the Chiffons_


	4. Chapter 4

_June 18__th_

_9:30 p.m._

Wilson paced back and forth as the phone rang. And rang. _Dammit, it's gonna go to voicemail. Come on, House! This is important!_

At the last possible moment there was a click. Wilson caught the tail end of 'Dancing Queen' and frowned a little. _Hasn't he changed that stupid ringtone yet?_

"Yello." House's rough baritone sounded surprisingly pleasant. Wilson's frown deepened.

"I'm fine, thanks for asking," he said with exact politeness.

"Good to know." Was that an actual, honest-to-god lilt of _cheerfulness_ in House's voice? "What do you want?"

"Um," Wilson said, still trying to take in this apparent miracle. "I—I, uh, wanted to let you know that Sam . . . Sam and I . . . we're—we're getting married. Uh, remarried."

"Figured as much. Have fun while you can." And House hung up on him. Wilson stared at the phone in his hand, nonplussed. After a moment he hit redial.

"_What?_" House said when he picked up, again on the final ring. This time he sounded impatient. "The weather gods have unleashed Armageddon up here, so I'd really rather not be holding a fractal antenna to my head right now. Tempting fate, et cetera."

"What exactly do you mean, 'have fun while you can'?" Wilson tried not to sound accusatory.

"Well, it speaks for itself, doesn't it?" House said. From his side of the conversation a loud rumble of thunder sounded, followed by the pounding of heavy rain. "I'd spell it out with semaphores, but my phone camera doesn't work too well in Stygian blackness. That and I don't have the flags."

"Just—just tell me what you mean," Wilson said with some impatience.

"What's the magic word?" House said. There was a brief silence, broken by another ominous growl of thunder.

"Magic word?" Wilson said at last.

"Your mother never taught you about please and thank you?" House sounded shocked. "Please is the one I'm looking for at the moment, if you need a clue."

"Um . . . okay. Please," Wilson said, thoroughly bewildered.

"Sure, no problemo. Here's the straight skinny: you'll stay with her until you fix her again. Then you'll mess things up and she'll leave." _Click._ Wilson pulled the phone away from his ear and hit speed dial.

"House!" he snarled when his call was answered. "Stop hanging up!"

"What's the magic woooord?" House sang.

"Oh, for—_please_!" Wilson began pacing again.

"Thank you. What else do you want?"

"I—I want a _conversation_ with you, not thirty seconds of—of self-help soundbites!"

"Untrue," House said. "I talked, you got pissed off. Same thing we always do."

"That's not how it came across to me," Wilson said hotly. "You-you pronounced sentence, I tried to get you to explain. How about a little elaboration on that prediction of doom you made?"

"What's the—"

"_PLEASE_, goddammit!"

There was a pause. "I don't think that was very sincere," House said. He sounded doubtful. Wilson fought for calm.

"Will you _please_, super-duper pretty _please_ with whipped cream and a naked cherry virgin on top, just talk with me and not hang up?" he said finally.

"There, see?" House was sounding cheerful again. "That wasn't so hard. By the way, my answer's no." And for the third time that night, he was gone. Wilson resisted the urge to hurl his phone across the room. He replaced it in the charger and sat down slowly.

_He doesn't want to talk to me._ Anger ebbed away, leaving astonishment and a growing apprehension in its place. _He really doesn't want to talk to me. _

"James?" Sam stood in the bedroom doorway. "Is something wrong? I heard you shouting."

"It's nothing." The denial was automatic. "Just a . . . a difference of opinion."

Sam came into the room. "With who?"

"Whom," he said, an automatic correction. "No one . . . it doesn't matter."

"You called House." Sam sat down on the bed beside him. Wilson looked at her, genuinely surprised for the second time that evening.

"How . . . how did you know?"

"The only time I ever hear you agitated or really upset is when you're talking about him. So it stands to reason he's the only person you'd yell at that way." Sam offered him a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. Wilson blinked.

"You don't . . . you're not mad that I don't talk to _you_ that way, are you?"

"No, of course not." Sam spoke so quietly he could barely hear her, though they were sitting side by side.

Wilson took her hand in his. "He's always been impossible hold a conversation with for any length of time. We usually end up arguing, or worse."

"But he's still your friend," Sam said. "Why?"

"I've asked myself that question a thousand times." Wilson smiled a little. "I didn't choose his friendship, he sort of . . . force-broke his way into my life, and never left. It was right after you and I . . ." He ground to a halt, uncertain if he'd said something wrong or not. It wasn't hard to tell with her usually, but there were times when he had no clue what she was thinking, or what her reaction might be.

Same looked down at their linked hands. "I see."

"He needed someone . . . I—I tried to help him but he—" He stopped; this was treacherous emotional territory. "Anyway, we've just sort of—hung out together all these years. Habit, I guess."

Sam nodded. "You are a creature of habit, James." She loosed her hand from his with care and kissed his cheek, a swift brush of lips over skin. "I'm going to bed, it's late." As she left the room Wilson watched her, knowing something was amiss but at a loss as to how he could make things right. _Damn you, House,_ he thought. _How do you manage to stand between two people when you're not even in the same state?_

[H] [H] [H]

Roz sat up as she saw Greg emerge from his room. In the dim lighting it was difficult to read his expression as he crossed toward her, but she could see he was watching her in turn, his gaze as piercing as ever. Slowly he lowered himself into the easy chair.

"Why did you kiss me?" he asked. Roz shrugged but didn't look away.

"Guess I wanted to," she said, careful to keep her tone light, casual. His eyes narrowed.

"You're telling me you didn't plan to do it?"

"Plan?" She shook her head. "Nope." It was more or less the truth, and all he needed to know. Actually she'd been thinking about kissing him since earlier that afternoon, maybe even a little before that. He really did have a wonderful mouth . . .

"What are you up to?" he asked, his voice little more than a murmur. She said nothing, only watched him steadily. He leaned in, his gaze locked to hers—

The back door banged. A moment later Sarah came into the room, soaked to the skin.

"It's pourin' buckets out there," she said, rubbing a towel over her drenched curls. "Almost got fried too, but at least the tomatoes are safe." She paused, peered at them, seemed about to say something, then turned around and left the room. Greg chuckled. The sound grated on Roz's nerves.

"What's so funny?" she asked.

"Someone thinks we need to be alone." His obvious amusement slashed at her. She got to her feet, struggling with the need to escape before things got worse, as they always did.

"It's been a long day. I'm going to bed." Her voice was sharper than she liked, but too bad; if it pissed him off, fine by her. Of course he said the wrong thing in reply; she knew he was going to do it but still flinched when he said the words.

"Okay. I'll go with you."

Roz turned to throw him a withering glare. "Yeah, one lameass kiss will get you into the sack with me, you bet. Thanks for the warning. At least now I know you're just like anyone else in this stupid town when it comes to making assumptions." The pain dug deep and she drew in a startled breath, horrified to feel tears in her eyes.

"That's not what I . . . it's dark, I thought maybe you might need-ah, _fuck_ it." Greg sounded annoyed. "You're no slouch when it comes to making instant judgments yourself."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Chip, shoulder," he said. "Everything is measured against that complex of yours, even innocent remarks about other people's actions."

"Nine times out of ten I'm right," Roz said. She felt her cheeks grow warm and was glad the lighting was low enough that he probably wouldn't notice her blushing.

"But there's always that tenth person. Someone has to make up the statistics," he said. "I wasn't taking a swipe at you. I was making an _observation._ Go look up the definition in a dictionary sometime."

"So now I'm an idiot." She deliberately unclenched her hands. "Fine. Obviously I'm only good for one thing, and it isn't my intelligence."

"Hey, you said it, not me." The taunting note in Greg's voice tore at her.

"Yeah, I did." She turned away. "So what?"

"Interesting theory. I'm willing to put it to the test," Greg said. "Care to conduct some experiments?"

"Not in this lifetime." She stalked off, anger and self-disappointment stiffening her back and her resolve. _Stupid, _she thought as she climbed the stairs. _Now he'll believe all those stories about you are true. What the hell is wrong with you? Why can't you ever think before jumping straight into some idiotic mistake? _

But it hadn't been a mistake to kiss him, she knew it deep down inside. The moment she'd touched his face she'd felt something, some flash of energy that had leapt between them, a spark of static electricity but more, bigger; it had both frightened and exhilarated her. _Like a live wire_, she thought, remembering the time she'd been knocked on her ass a good six feet when she'd started to open a wall plate with a screw-point accidentally embedded in one of the lines. Her flathead driver had touched the metal and included her in the completed circuit, with spectacular results. She felt a bit the same way now, her face still tingling a little from the rasp of his beard, her lips tender and slightly swollen.

It didn't take long to undress, put on the shabby old tank top she used for sleeping, and climb into bed. The storm was retreating, still hurling a few lightning bolts now and then, growling long and low between flashes. She lay in the muggy warm darkness, thinking she would be awake half the night worrying about what had happened. Within five minutes of her head hitting the pillow she was asleep.

[H] [H] [H]

_11 p.m._

Sarah put the oil lamp on the night stand as Gene moved around to the other side of the bed, yawning.

"If the power isn't on by morning we'd better start planning a barbecue," she said, and scrubbed a hand over her curls.

"We'll worry about it tomorrow," Gene said. He shucked off his tee shirt and tossed it at the hamper. His cutoffs followed. Sarah took a moment to admire him peeling off his skivvies. Gene caught her look and raised an eyebrow as he stepped out of his boxers and slung them after the other clothes. She lay back on the bed, her head pillowed on her arms, and gave him a little smile. He sat down, then swung his long legs up and stretched out on his side, watching her.

"Kinda warm to fool around," he said. Sarah shrugged and reached out to turn down the oil lamp.

"We're already sweaty."

"You've got a point," Gene said, and moved to take her into his arms.

Later, Sarah stirred and kissed his damp chest.

"Wonder how long it'll take those two to get together," she said. Gene stroked her wild locks, wound one around his finger.

"You really think that'll happen?"

"Yup." Sarah smiled a little. "It already has, they just don't know it yet."

Gene chuckled. "I think you're being optimistic," he said. "They're too much alike."

"We'll see." Sarah gave a soft chuckle. "If I were a betting woman, my money would be on the electrician chick. She knows what she wants."

"Pretty scary for a guy who thinks he's damaged goods," Gene said.

"I don't know. I suspect he's more ready than he thinks he is."

"They'll need some alone time," Gene said. He pulled gently on the curl and watched it spring back into place. "I'm willing to take you out when I'm home if that'll help."

"Rick wants me to work in the bakery one day a week," she said. "I might just do it."

"You don't have to, you know." Gene stroked her shoulder, his lean fingers moving in slow circles. Sarah smiled at him.

"I know. If nothing else, Greg needs the house to himself once in a while. And we can put the money aside for a rainy day."

"Now there's a thought." Gene gave her a soft pat, then settled in next to her. "Do what you think is best. I'll support your decision."

"Thanks." She kissed him, closed her eyes and drifted off.

[H] [H] [H]

_June 19__th_

_1:30 a.m._

Greg is still awake when the power comes on, though the static and light from the tv startles him. Slowly he gets up and moves around the room, shutting off appliances and lights, taking his time. When he reaches the kitchen he checks the freezer and finds some things beginning to thaw, but the majority of the contents still frozen solid. He puts the softened meat in the fridge, takes out a bottle of beer, still semi-chilled, and heads for the back yard.

Sarah's garden is quiet under a night sky filled with stars. He sits in the old chair and breathes in the fresh-washed air, cool and soft. After a moment he takes a sip of beer and savors the clean, bitter taste.

_Kissing a woman as fucked up as I am __and__ a call from Wilson, all in the same evening. Wonder how I earned that honor. _He sighs and looks up at the Milky Way, a dim glimmering in the velvet darkness_. _Pain beckons him, no matter which path he decides to take. Wilson abandoning him for Sam . . . the memory of losing Stacy bit by bit, unable to stop himself from pushing her away . . . Cuddy leaving his hospital room in tears . . . The memories slip into his mind like a thief. He closes his eyes, knowing it is useless to fight against the recollection of harsh words, cold silences, empty rooms, and sighs softly.

_Don't think I can do this._ He doesn't want to open up to someone else, it's an act that's never brought anything but regret, and adds to a sadness so vast he can scarcely bear to contemplate it. _She's better off thinking I just want to get her into my bed. If she knew the truth, she'd laugh herself sick._ Those few moments of human contact, of soft lips and the taste of sweetness, have shaken him to his core. He'd wanted more and been equally afraid to reach out, to ask—not so much in fear of rejection as in the possibility that she _would_ give him what he wanted.

He sits in the patient darkness for a long while, torn between _what if _and _I dare not_.


	5. Chapter 5

_**(A/N: to everyone who's added me and my stories to your Alerts and/or Favorites lists, many thanks, I'm humbly grateful. Thanks also to mmgage for long IM chats about all things House and other stuff besides, and to MissBates for her wonderful in-depth reviews, emails and constructive criticism of my work. I couldn't do it without you both, mi companeras. Btw, if you haven't read mm's excellent fic Friends and MissBates A Midwinter's Nightmare, you're missing out on some great writing! **_

_**At any rate, hope you enjoy this chapter, and if you are so inclined, please leave a review on the way out, it would really make my day. -B)  
**_

_June 19th_

_9:30 a.m._

"We'll definitely be having a barbecue." Sarah contemplates the meat sitting in the fridge. "I'd better start calling people now."

"There's only ten pounds of hamburger and a couple packages of steaks," Greg points out. He finishes off his cereal and takes the bowl to the sink.

"Well, we can have everyone bring anything that got thawed out and hope they don't stockpile liver or chicken gizzards." Sarah closes the door and picks up her tea. She sips it, giving him a candid look. "Get any sleep last night?"

"Nope," Greg says, and turns the water on full force, making a big show out of rinsing things.

"I see." Sarah finishes her tea. "Okay, don't confide in your analyst."

"Nosy," he growls, just as the unnamed subject of the conversation comes into the kitchen. Greg takes the bowl to the dishwasher, yanks the door open and stuffs it in, slams it shut and heads past Roz into the living room, avoiding her gaze. To his surprise and apprehension, she follows him.

"Greg," she says, and he hesitates in unwilling fascination at hearing her speak his name. "I . . . I want to apologize."

Now he makes a full stop and turns to look at her. "What?"

"I apologize." Roz looks nervous, but her gaze holds his. In the morning sunlight her eyes are a shadowed green, the color of oak leaves. "I was rude."

"I was right," he counters, just to see what she'll say. She folds her arms and looks down.

"Yeah, you were."

"Interesting," he says, and means it. "What's brought on this fit of remorse?"

"What you said, about the chip on my shoulder . . ." She fidgets. "I guess some of that's true."

"You guess?" He cannot resist prodding her.

"Okay, I know!" she snaps, and takes a deep breath. "I said I was sorry. Take it or leave it."

"What difference does it make to you if I accept your apology or not?" Greg watches her closely. Roz shrugs but still won't look at him.

"I just . . . you . . ." She sighs. "Oh, screw it," and moves forward. This time when she kisses him it's like lightning—one brief, powerful strike—and then she's gone, fleeing as if pursued by thunder. Greg raises a hand to his tingling mouth, watching her.

"Huh," he says after a time. A smile tugs at his lips.

_11:45 a.m._

Greg comes into the kitchen to find Roz making lunch and trying to sing along with a Karen Carpenter song. He winces as she veers off-pitch, but even as he cringes he detects a difference in the sounds she's making—they're not quite as hideously out of key as on other occasions. _She's a natural contralto_, he thinks, and dares to venture closer. As he approaches she looks up from cutting a sandwich and falls silent. A blush stains her cheeks and she glances away, but not before he sees something like guilt in her expression.

_Interesting. Guilt over what—the attempt at singing or the kiss? Let's find out._ He grabs a chair from the table and sits in it backwards—another old habit he can indulge in now, at least occasionally. "Don't stop killing the song on my account. Stick to kissing, you're much better at it."

She sets the sandwich aside and begins slicing more bread. "I know I can't sing. You don't have to rub it in." There is a subtle pain in her words that brings him up short as he is about to make another smartass remark.

"Ever had lessons?" he says after an awkward silence. Roz laughs, but there is no amusement in the sound.

"What's the point? I can't carry a tune in a bucket and never could."

"Someone else told you that and you believed them," he says. "A few sessions might change things." Roz turns to glare at him.

"I'm sure you find it very amusing to make fun of me but for some strange reason I don't, so cut it out."

"I can teach you to at least find pitch, you idiot," he snaps, exasperated by her unending prickliness. "Stop being so damn defensive and start listening when people talk, instead of indulging in knee-jerk reactions. It makes you look stupid."

She is still for a moment, then puts the bread knife on the counter. She gives him a long, measuring stare. "You're actually offering to teach me to sing?"

"I wouldn't go that far," he says. "Learning pitch isn't singing, but it's a start. Anyway, it's enlightened self-interest on my part. If I have to listen to you caterwauling, I'd rather hear something vaguely resembling a melody." He clears his throat and hums middle C. Roz stares at him, puzzled. He makes an encouraging 'follow me' gesture from him to her to him, then hums a little louder. She looks uncertain, but after a moment she takes his direction and produces a sound at least half an octave too high. He points at the floor. She pulls her note down slowly. When she hits middle C he gives her a thumbs up. She rolls her eyes but stays on tone.

He takes her through a few more notes. By the end of five minutes she is reaching correct pitch more quickly, though she is still off by a substantial amount initially.

"Okay," he says finally. "I can work with what you've got." He gives her a smirk. She doesn't respond the way he thinks she will, though. She looks away, her hands behind her, gripping the countertop.

"You really . . . you really think I could learn? I mean, not to sing in front of people or anything, but . . . just for me?"

He is surprised by the question. "Maybe," he says at last, not wanting to give her false hope. She nods and turns back to the breadboard without comment as Sarah comes into the kitchen. She is singing along with the cd, her voice as clear and true as Karen's. Greg sees Roz hunch her shoulders and knows a startling and unwelcome moment of empathy. _It's hard to want something so badly when you know you'll never have it. _That hits too close to home for comfort; he pushes the thought away and leaves the kitchen to spend the afternoon with his keyboard and a pair of headphones, playing old favorites and enjoying the simple pleasure of releasing the music inside him.

_6 p.m._

When he emerges from his room it is to find people in the house—the Buttermans, Rick Hutch and several others from town he hasn't met yet. As he closes the door behind him a little girl runs up and throws her arms around his good leg. "Unca Greg!"

He peers down at her. "It's you," he says without enthusiasm, and winces when Chelsea squeezes him hard.

"We made a snowman!" she says. "You threw snowballs at Auntie Sarah and she fell down."

"Old news, kid," he says. "What are you doing here?"

"We're havin' dinner with you!" Chelsea lets go and takes his free hand. "Mama says I get a hot dog and chips. What do you want?"

"Peace and quiet," he says, and looks up to find Sarah headed in their direction.

"Hey there, girlfriend!" she says with a big smile, and holds out her arms. Chelsea gives up her death grip on his hand and runs to Sarah, who swings her into the air with a laugh and then holds her close. For one moment Greg sees what can never be, and has to look away. "Come on, we're grillin' up hot dogs and I need your help."

They head off to the back yard, Chelsea perched on Sarah's hip, chattering away like a magpie. He is about to retreat to his room when Roz walks by, a bowl of salad in one hand and a tray of condiments in the other. She is wearing a lacy black tank top over a pair of ragged cutoffs, her long thin legs brown and smooth, cheap flipflops on her feet. Her thick hair is braided in a glossy rope fastened with a red elastic; she looks cool and comfortable and good enough to eat. She threads through the knots of people gathered here and there with practiced ease, her slender hips swaying to the music coming from the kitchen. As he noted months ago in the supermarket, her rhythm is impeccable, even mesmerizing . . . He is startled out of his reverie by Rick Hutch. The younger man stands next to him, a sweating bottle of beer in hand. He is watching Roz with a sort of wistful intensity that serves as its own warning.

"Wouldn't think someone so skinny would be such a babe when you peel her out of that damn jumpsuit she's always wearin'," he is saying.

Greg doesn't look at the other man. "Not much meat, but what there is is cherce."

"Yeah." Rick obviously doesn't get the reference. "Well said, man."

Greg decides to put out a feeler. "I hear she's pretty easy to get."

That comment elicits a grunt. "Her mom is. I dunno about Rosie. She's got a lotta sharp edges. A man can't put up with that for long unless there's somethin' else worth all the aggravation."

Sarah pops into the doorway. "Supper's on, come 'n get it!"

The back yard has been turned into a makeshift banquet hall. Party lights of every description hang from any available high point, and card tables set side by side are covered in white butcher paper, table service and platters of food. In the amiable confusion of collecting something to eat Greg keeps an eye open for Roz. He finds her at last, curled up on a corner of the lawn by the garden with Chelsea, Marti and a man Greg presumes is Rob. Greg grips his plate and fork and limps slowly in their general direction, skirting the edge of open space to move behind the little group and take a seat within earshot of their conversation.

"I'll ask, but I don't think Poppi Lou will ever give up his red gravy recipe," Roz is saying. Greg's ears perk up. _So Lou's her grandfather . . . interesting._ "Rick's tried to figure out the secret ingredient in the lemon curd Poppi sends over to the bakery too, but he hasn't done it yet. He even used some _limoncello_ but it wasn't the same."

"What's lee-mon-chello?" Chelsea asks around a mouthful of chips.

"Eat now, talk later," Rob says, and ruffles Chelsea's fair hair with a gentle hand. "It's a grownup drink. Sort of like Auntie Sarah's lemon fizz, only with a big kick."

The talk becomes more general and Greg loses interest, but he stays where he is, watching Roz.

_8:30 p.m._

The barbecue has been cleared away, the leftovers put out on the dining room table for picking, and the back yard is now hosting what amounts to a sock hop; there's an oldies compilation on the cd player. At the end of the fourth song Greg gets up, intending to claim his easy chair and join in watching the baseball game. His plan is derailed when he finds Roz standing in front of him.

"Dance with me?" she asks. Her gaze lifts to his face, then returns to scrutinizing his feet, presumably.

"I don't . . ." he begins, and groans as a slow song starts to play. Roz looks up at him again. He returns her regard despite his intent to do otherwise, for once bereft of words. There is determination in her eyes and something else, a quiet request he cannot refuse. With a silent sigh he sets his cane aside and lifts his arms just a little, signaling his reluctance. She steps forward and fits herself into his hold as if she's always been there. When her cheek comes to rest over his heart he closes his eyes and savors her warmth with unwilling pleasure, her slim body swaying with his, the scent of her, fresh and clean in the soft evening air. It's been so long since he's performed this dangerous act, allowing someone to come near him, in both a literal and figurative way; it feels exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.

When the song ends and another begins she doesn't let go, and neither does he. She raises her head finally and he looks down at her, his gaze steady. She doesn't pull away or distance herself. Instead she meets his look and doesn't back off. There's only one thing he can do. He stoops to kiss her. Her lips meet his, her small hands holding him close with a shy tenderness in which he can't help but take delight. When the kiss ends she settles her head on his chest with a soft sigh that sends a tremor of desire through him. He is about to ask her to follow him into the house when someone says

"Mind if I cut in?"

Rick is standing a few feet away. In the semi-darkness his expression is unreadable, but there's no mistaking the cold annoyance emanating from him. Greg feels his gut tighten and clamps hard on the hurt welling up inside. _So she's been playing me all this time. I should have known. _He releases his hold on Roz and puts her away from him.

"Not at all," he says with a casualness he's nowhere near feeling, and takes his cane. Without another word he turns and heads into the house, refusing to think about anything except grabbing a cold beer and a good game on the tv, which was what he should have been doing all along anyway.

_June 20th_

_12:30 a.m._

Greg is sitting in his room with the six-string, playing softly and watching as the last of the evening's guests wend their way down the long driveway, when someone knocks on the door. He pauses, pretty sure who it is. The knock comes again, more insistent this time but still soft.

When he answers it's Roz on the other side. "May I come in?" she asks. He stays where he is.

"What do you want?"

"I'd like to talk to you," she says. "Please."

He hesitates, then steps aside to let her enter. She doesn't bother to look around; she sits in the easy chair he's just vacated and looks at him. She seems upset. He hardens his heart against her. _So her plan backfired or didn't work the way she thought it would. Too damn bad._

"Why did you do that?" she asks. Greg half-closes the door and limps over to the bed, sits down. He sets the guitar aside.

"Do what?"

She makes an impatient gesture. "Abandon me to Rick that way."

"It seemed like a good idea," he says. "I don't want to interfere with whatever game you two have going."

"He isn't really interested in me," she says in what sounds for all the world like contempt. "He thinks he needs a wife and kids and I'm the only available younger woman in the village. He's so desperate he's even willing to overlook the fact that I'm secondhand goods, at least according to everyone else. And he thinks he'll get all of Poppi's secret recipes if he agrees to marry me."

The bitterness in her words bites at him. "Oh, come on," he says sharply. "And I'm supposed to buy all this baloney why, exactly?"

Roz glares at him. "_You_ come on," she says. "It's not baloney. You think I'm kidding, ask Rick."

"What is it exactly you want with me, then?" Greg asks, though he knows it's idiocy to pose such a question when he will probably be hurt even more by the answer. Roz looks at her knees.

"I don't know," she says softly. "But . . . I'd like to find out." Her eyes lift to focus on him. In the soft light they are bright, a little uncertain, defiant. "This isn't a game, or some stupid ploy to get someone else interested in me." He can hear the truth in her words, in the quiet, simple way she speaks to him. "Please believe me, Greg."

In that moment, somewhere deep inside, he feels a decision being made. His rational mind stands aghast, hurling all sorts of objections, protestations, dire warnings at him, but it's too late; what's done is done. He gets up from the bed and goes to the turntable, clicks it on, and riffles through his substantial shelf of vinyl until he finds the record he wants, an ancient, prosaic-looking 45 that belies the treasure within the grooves. When the needle drops and the song begins to play he dons the tattered cloak of his courage, swallows hard and turns to Roz. She stands as he approaches and slips into his arms without being asked. They don't even bother to dance; they simply hold each other.

"Why me?" he asks eventually. "I'm too old, bum leg, unemployed . . . I'm not even good-looking."

"I don't know," she says, and he gives a soft snort of wry amusement, he can't help it. "Shut up," she smacks his chest lightly. "I mean it! I just know that when you're around . . . I want to be with you."

"Could have fooled me," he says, fighting a smile.

"Yeah, well right back atcha," she says. Her arms tighten about him gently. "I don't understand why you want me either, but I know you do."

She's right. Her acumen is disturbing, but there's a sense of relief under it all, somehow. He hears the turntable stylus lift and move back to the beginning of the record. He puts a hand under Roz's chin and tips her face up to his.

"Stay."

She hesitates. "Not yet," she says softly. "I'm—I'm not trying to tease you—I . . ." She falls silent.

"Are you a virgin?" he asks. She shakes her head.

"No . . . it's just . . . I want to get to know you first."

The very idea strikes cold. Greg feels himself tense up. "You want me to court you," he says. "That's . . . not a good idea." He can't look at her.

"Why?" Her hand rubs his back in a slow, comforting circle.

"People who know me . . . don't like me," he says. Roz tilts her head.

"That's not true. Sarah and Gene like you," she says. "I trust them. Anyway, _I_ like you. That's good enough to go on."

"_You_ like me?" He can't resist teasing her. "Since when?"

"March twenty-first," she says. The answer makes him laugh. She gives him a brief grin, her green eyes sparkling. "Didn't expect that, did you?" Slowly her expression sobers. "You really think I'll find out you're some horrible person and end up running away?"

"Everyone does. Some of them literally," he says, avoiding her gaze. "I've been holding back all these months. Just thought I'd tell you that."

To his surprise she gives a soft laugh. "Stop trying to scare me off. I'm perfectly capable of deciding if someone's a jerk or not."

"I'm mean," he says. "Nasty. And cruel, forgot that one. I have it on good authority that I make people worse just by having me around them. They can't handle what I dish out. I kick and I bite."

She moves her hand from his back to touch his cheek. "That all you got?"

"I'm serious!" he snaps at her. Panic is building within again. _I'm gonna fuck this up like always and she'll never—_

"I know." Her fingers stroke his skin. He fights the blaze of need her touch ignites, backpedaling for all he's worth. Roz drops her hand. "Stop worrying about what might happen. We'll deal with things when we get to them."

"That's a really stupid idea," he says, determined to go down fighting even though the battle's been lost for some time. "We will end up hurting each other. It's a given."

"That's possible," she says. "But it's still a better gamble than what we've both been doing so far, don't you think?"

Greg exhales long and slow. He brings his gaze to hers and keeps it there. "Dunno," he says, and feels her relax a little.

"Small steps, then. How about dinner tomorrow night?" she says after a while. "We could have it here at the house with Gene and Sarah if you don't want to go out."

"Okay," he says, relieved at the thought of not having to subject himself to public scrutiny on a first date. Memories of Stacy and then Cameron flit through his thoughts; he shoves them away, along with the portent of disaster they bring in their wake.

"Wow," she says. "I've reduced you to one word answers. Damn, I'm good."

He brings her close. "Yup," he says, just to make her laugh. Then the music begins again, and everything else fades in the moment of holding someone close, someone he wants to be with who apparently wants him, too.

_(They Long To Be) Close To You, the Carpenters_

_One Summer Night, the Danleers  
_

_Every Beat of My Heart, The Pips_


	6. Chapter 6

_**(A/N: here's a midweek pre-Solstice treat for my readers-at least I hope it's a treat for you! This won't be a regular thing, but I will try to post a chapter ahead of time now and then. Enjoy, and if you are so inclined, please leave a review on your way out, it would definitely make my day. -B)**_

_June 20th_

_10 a.m._

Sarah perched on the couch beside Gene. He glanced over at her in mild surprise and turned down the sound on the game he was watching.

"Ask me out to dinner," she said. She was fairly vibrating with excitement. Gene set aside the remote and turned a bit to face her.

"Okay," he said, willing to play along. "Wanna do pizza and pool?"

"No," she said promptly, "we're having a double date here with Greg and Roz," gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and hurried off to the kitchen. Gene watched her leave. After a few moments he got up and followed her.

"—something casual but nice," Sarah was saying to Roz when he reached the doorway.

"I didn't bring anything . . ." Roz fell silent as Gene came into view.

"Just what is going on, exactly?" he asked, amused at the faint expressions of guilt on both womens faces.

"Roz suggested we have a double date here at the house, so I thought we could . . . you know," Sarah said with elaborate casualness. Gene folded his arms and raised an eyebrow.

"Does Greg know about this?" he asked, doing his best to help out a fellow victim.

"Of course," Sarah said. She glanced at Roz. "I have something that might work. Wait here." She flew out of the room. Roz looked down at her hands.

"I hope you don't mind us using your home this evening," she said. She sounded uncertain, even shy, not at all the practical young woman he was used to dealing with. Gene leaned against the counter, smiling a little.

"Nope," he said. "Sarah and I haven't double-dated in some time. It'll be fun to do something different on a Sunday night." He had the satisfaction of seeing Roz relax a bit.

"Okay . . . good," she said, as Sarah returned with fabric draped over her arm.

"I bought this at a little boutique in the city last year but I've never worn it. I got it home and discovered it's not really my style," she said. "But I think it might work for you." She gently shook out the folds and offered the garment to Roz. "You're a little taller and slimmer than me, but we have plenty of time to make alterations if we need to."

Roz came forward and took the whatever-it-was. "Are you sure?" she asked. Sarah nodded.

"Positive. Go try it on. You can use the mudroom, I'll guard the door."

When Roz disappeared into the anteroom Gene fixed his gaze on Sarah. "You're matchmaking," he said quietly.

"I am not," she said in some indignation. "They worked this out on their own."

"Uh huh," he said, still skeptical. "You really think this is a good idea?"

"It's not up to me," she said. "They're adults, they can decide for themselves if they like each other."

"Sarah Jane," he said mildly.

"I did _not _have anything to do with those two deciding to go out," she said, choosing to take umbrage at his reproof. The effect was spoiled by the way her gaze didn't meet his. "I wouldn't—wouldn't-" She paused, obviously searching for the right word. "I wouldn't stoop to that sort of thing."

"Liar, liar, pants on fire," Gene said, fighting a grin. "I saw you messin' with the cd player last night. You made sure there were three slow dances in a row when you found out the two of them were together in the back yard. Deny _that._"

Any further conversation was forestalled by the return of Roz. She entered the kitchen slowly, her manner diffident, but the change from woman in at-home comfys to woman in full bloom was astonishing. Gene's eyes widened. _Wow_, he thought, and felt a rush of sympathy for Greg. _He won't stand a chance, poor guy._

"Oh, it's perfect!" Sarah was saying. "I knew this color would look good on you, I just knew it!" She came forward. "Take a little spin around," she said, smiling. Roz rolled her eyes but did as Sarah asked. "Just a tuck here . . . and we can bring up the back a little . . . how does it feel?"

"I love it," Roz said, and sent a glance at Gene, her cheeks pink.

"He will too," Gene said, and meant it. Roz's blush deepened.

"Thanks," she said, and offered him a smile. _Oh boy, _Gene thought. _I know that sort of smile. The man's gonna burn up like chicken at a barbecue._

"Okay, run upstairs and we'll get things taken care of," Sarah was saying. "I'll bring your things with me so you can change back when we're done . . ." She disappeared into the mudroom as Roz departed for the second floor. Gene found himself abandoned. After a moment he went to the fridge, took out a Coke and headed for the living room, where the Tivo'd Sox game waited for him.

Chicago was in the process of shutting down the inning when Greg emerged from his room. He limped over to his easy chair, collapsed into it and blinked at the screen, scratching his chin.

"Who's up?" he asked, his voice full of morning gravel.

"Sox, bottom of the seventh," Gene said.

"Hah," Greg said, "plenty of time for them to clutch," and yawned. He settled into the chair, closed his eyes and folded his arms across his spare middle. Gene sent him a pitying look.

"Got something picked out to wear tonight?" he asked. Greg opened one eye.

"Nope."

"You'd better," Gene said. "Wouldn't hurt to have Gordy give you a onceover."

Greg opened the other eye. "What for?"

"Come on, man," Gene said. "First date." He sipped his Coke and stretched out. "It's a big deal for her."

"I see Sarah's been busy telling you her master plan," Greg muttered. Gene gave him a sidelong look.

"I think both women are equally involved in this. Forewarned, forearmed." He gave a soft belch and stretched out a bit. "I'm just sayin'. Roz would love it if you spiffed up a little."

"That's her problem," Greg said. Gene shook his head.

"You don't have to go all out. A suit, flowers, candy—that would be way overkill. But you should make an effort. It'll mean a lot to her." He paused. "She's worth it. Not too many around like her, you know."

With a sigh Greg sat up. "Yeah yeah, yeah, okay, _fine_. Do I have time for breakfast at least?"

"Nope," Gene said. "Besides, we're out of Cap'n Crunch. Better pick some up on the way home from Gordy's." He hid a smile as Greg pushed out of his chair and went back to his room, aggravation apparent in every step. _I did my part for the cause,_ Gene thought, and returned to the game.

_11:45 a.m._

"Short sides, some off the top. And a shave," Greg says as he settles into the chair. Gordy spares him a shrewd look as he drapes the white cloth and takes a comb out of the glass of water on the stand. The agreeably florid scent of Bay Rum drifts down as he begins his work.

"Somethin' special goin' on tonight?" he asks.

"Nah," Greg says. "Thought I'd splurge." Gordy chuckles.

"I'll give you a good close shave. Smooth as a baby's bottom," he says.

"Hmmm," Greg says. "Didn't know babies innocent little backsides needed depilating. Learn something new every day."

Gordy's faded blue eyes twinkle. "Can't say as I've heard it either, but your woman will appreciate it."

Greg says nothing, knowing any protestations he makes will just convince his listener that far more is going on than really _is_ going on.

It's been quite some time since he's indulged in the whole hot steaming towels and straight razor ritual, and Gordy is a master at the process. When Greg leaves the shop he feels about ten years younger and maybe even looks it too. With a little more spring in his step he heads out to buy some necessities.

It is while his order is being checked out that he realizes he's just made two mistakes that will cascade into one colossal consequence. In amongst the tabloids, smokes, cereal, candy, peanut butter, chocolate, soda and chips is a small box of condoms. When the clerk picks it up to run it over the scanner, Greg catches her giving him a swift, sidelong glance that tells him this news will be all over town in a matter of hours. He stands there stricken, knowing it's too late to put the box back or deny he wanted to buy it.

_By now everyone knows Roz is staying at the house. And to top it off, I came into town for a shave and a haircut. They'll put two and two together and get four, all right. And it'll just confirm everything they all think about her already. _His evanescent good mood vanishes as if it had never been. Numb, he pays the clerk and follows the kid carrying his bags out to the truck, feeling like a total moron. In Princeton, no clerk or barber would think twice about his purchase or his personal habits because they wouldn't know him; in a small town, everyone will be cramming Twitter and IMs with gossip the way they used to jam telephone party lines when he was a kid.

_1:30 p.m._

When he gets to the house he hauls in his things and puts them away, then goes looking for Sarah. Eventually he finds her upstairs in her bedroom with the door closed. He can hear her in there with Roz, both of them using a hushed, giggly tone that seems to come to women naturally when they're indulging in true girl-talk. He grits his teeth and thumps on the door. A moment later it cracks open to reveal Sarah. She has a cloth measuring tape in one hand and several pins in her mouth. When she sees him her gaze narrows.

"Yesh?" she says around the pins. Greg blinks. It's rare for her to be impatient with him.

"I need to talk to you. It's important," he says. She hesitates.

"Jusha mi'ute."

She pulls the door shut; there is an exchange of words, and then she scoots into the hall, the door closed firmly behind her. She is pin-free. "What's up?" she asks.

"I . . ." Greg swallows and faces the consequence of actions taken. "I did something stupid."

Sarah's demeanor changes. She straightens, her expression one of concern. "What happened? Are you all right?"

He explains, unable to look her in the eye. When he's finished there is a little silence.

"I think you should tell Roz what you told me," Sarah says at last.

"So she can kick my ass for being an oblivious idiot?" he says, and can't keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"So she can thank you for caring about her reputation. It'll mean a lot to her." She's smiling. "Things will turn out all right, Greg. Now go downstairs and let me finish my work here." She gives him a quick inspection. "You look very handsome. I love it when Gordy uses Bay Rum on his combs. Mucho sexy."

"If you're eighty," he grouses, and Sarah laughs.

"Go on," she says. "Take a shower. Wear that pale blue shirt that shows off your eyes and those tanned muscles you've got going. Dig out a clean pair of jeans. Put on some boxers first—"

"Okay, _Mom_," he growls at her, and ignores the fact that her grin is back. He stumps off down the stairs, feeling much better than he did on the way up.

_6:55 p.m._

Roz stood in front of the mirror and gave herself a final once-over. Everything seemed to be in place; even her hair was cooperating for once.

_Not too bad for a skinny girl with no looks. I keep telling him he wants me; maybe this will make it true somehow, and not just wishful thinking on my part. _She stared at her reflection and fought a burgeoning panic. _You're the one who pushed for this, _she reminded herself. _If things don't go well, then . . We're both adults, we can walk away . . . _She took a deep breath. _But that won't happen. So—don't keep him waiting. _She checked her teeth for lipstick, made sure her earring backs were secure, dabbed a bit of essential oil on her pulse points, and slipped into her sandals. She turned out the light and left the room, shaking like a leaf but determined to see things through, no matter what.


	7. Chapter 7

_**(A/N: here tis, my Litha/Solstice present to my readers: House and Roz's first date. My thanks to mmgage for supplying the line about needing a mobile blood bank when sitting outside on summer evenings. **_

_**Just a quick aside: someone asked me about the songs referenced in my stories. I'll just say they're there for a reason, and looking up the lyrics or listening to them on iTunes or YouTube would be well worth your while. :)**_

_**Enjoy, and if you are so inclined, please leave a review on your way out, it would really make my day. -B)**_

_June 20th_

_7 p.m._

Greg waits in the living room, fidgeting with his cane. Gene and Sarah are in the kitchen; he hears them talking back and forth, relaxed and easy, the sort of attitude he'd like to take with Roz . . . but if things follow the pattern of the years since his split with Stacy, this is going to be a disaster of epic proportions.

He is so deep in his thoughts that he doesn't see Roz until she's halfway down the stairs. He stands up, watching her descend the steps and cross the small distance from the bottom to stop a few feet away. She pauses for a moment, then starts to move past him.

"Stop." He winces at his unintentional harshness, but doesn't apologize. Roz obeys him, her gaze turned from his. He looks her over, astonished at the transformation.

The sundress she is wearing is deceptively simple-made of a light, rough silk, the fitted sleeveless bodice and upper third of the skirt are a soft olive green, with the lower section very slightly flounced in undyed silk of the same slub texture; he can just see the outline of her legs through the loose, gauzy weave. Her sable hair hangs loose over her mostly-bare shoulders in a shining fall. Her only jewelry is a pair of little peridot stud earrings, the yellow-green color of the gems matching the dress quite well. The cumulative effect is amazing; the clean lines and lack of ornament suit her dark, rather sardonic features. She isn't pretty and never will be, but in this moment, she is beautiful.

"You look . . . nice," he says, and gives a silent groan at his ineptitude. To his amazement she blushes.

"Thank you. So do you," she says. He glances down at himself. Oxford shirt, jeans, favorite sneaks; it's standard work attire minus a suit jacket, nothing special.

_You need to talk to her,_ that relentless little voice whispers. Dread makes his stomach clench. "Sit," he says aloud, and gestures at the couch. She takes a seat. When she does so he sees she has her cheapo chain-store flip-flops on. In some idiotic sort of way the sight reassures him.

"There's something I have to tell you. This afternoon, when I went into town . . ." He hesitates. "I made a mistake," he says, and falls silent. She doesn't speak, just waits for him to continue. He takes a deep breath. "I was picking up a few things at the store . . . and I bought some wrappers for that part of me with the small brain. The one that does most of my thinking, apparently."

Silence falls over them. He can't look at her; he knows this is a deal-breaker.

"Why did you do that?" Roz's voice is quiet. Greg flinches at the question and the flash of pain it causes.

"Why ask why?" he says, trying to take refuge in flippancy. "I'm a guy. It's what we do."

"Don't." She sounds impatient. "It's not a joke."

"I know that," he says, struggling to contain his urge to snap at her. "It was thoughtless. Now I've made things worse for you and I'm . . . I'm sorry." He braces for the rant that is surely coming.

"Apology accepted," she says after a brief silence. "Thank you." He looks at her in surprise to find her gaze steady on him. He glances away, unable to hold her regard. "But I meant what I said last night. I want to get to know you first, Greg."

Her answer shames him. He stares at his cane, waiting for her condemnation.

"Look, I've had years of watching my mother go through man after man, and the mistake she always made—makes—is sex first." She sighs softly. "It isn't that I don't want you. Please understand that."

The distress underlying her explanation pulls at him in ways he dislikes intensely. "What you want is a fairy tale," he says under his breath.

She shakes her head. "Never did believe in fairy tales, never will," she says. "I won't back down on this. It's the way it has to be for me. If that's too much to ask, tell me now and we'll—we'll call it quits after tonight, no harm done." There is a little tremor in her words that tells him she's lying, but is still willing to give him an out. It's an incredibly generous gesture, one he doesn't deserve in the least. Now he is obligated to return it.

"It's not too much," he says with great reluctance. "I think you're a fool for needing this . . . but so be it." He sighs a little. "You get one question. I'll answer it to the best of my ability."

To his surprise the corner of her mouth quirks up. "Just one?"

"Yes," he growls. "Ask already." His hands are shaking.

"All right." Roz hesitates. "What did you do before you came here to stay with Gene and Sarah?"

His gut clenches. _Dammit. She would start there. _"I was-am-a doctor. A diagnostician, to be specific." He waits for the next question. When none is forthcoming he glances at Roz before returning his gaze to his shoes. "No interrogation?"

"You said one question. I asked it. You answered. Do you want to tell me more?" she says softly.

"Not really." He knows he can't stop there though, not without cheating on giving her equal measure. "I . . . had a problem. Couldn't sleep, couldn't . . . function." He rolls his cane between his hands and takes the plunge. "Had some trouble with narcotics."

"You were on drugs for your leg." Her acumen doesn't surprise him. He nods again. "The pain's that bad?"

"It can be." He keeps his tone neutral, though the urge to get defensive is overwhelming.

"I didn't know," she says. She looks upset.

"What difference does it make?"

"I thought you were lazy." Her concern is obvious now. "It was wrong of me to assume something like that."

He shrugs. "It's a logical assumption. Pretty accurate, actually." He sits back, staring at her in challenge. "Still want to go out with a has-been loser?"

"You aren't either of those things," Roz says with some impatience. "So you're not perfect. You think I am? Perfection is the fairy tale, not this," she gestures between the two of them. "Yeah, I still want to go out with you. How about it?"

"Do I get dessert if I say yes?" he says. Her lips twitch, though her dark eyes don't spark with humor the way they do if she's really amused.

"That's a lot to pay for strawberry mousse, even if it is homemade," she says.

He says nothing, just gets to his feet. After a brief hesitation Roz stands and moves to his side.

Greg escorts her to the kitchen, feeling a bit ridiculous but enjoying the way her outfit rustles softly and seems to make her glide, as if she's moving an inch or so above the floor. She has the grace of a natural dancer; she smells good too, the same clean woodsy-floral scent she's worn before, and her hair swings in glossy deep waves over her shoulders. By the time they reach the table he's finding his jeans more than a bit confining. He struggles to think of something besides slipping her out of all that gleaming silk and exploring every inch of her lean, golden-brown body.

Gene is the first to see them come in. He nods and turns back to the salad he's tossing. Greg is relieved to see the other man's chosen dressy casual as well—a cream-colored shirt and khaki Dockers, his dark hair tamed into neatness. Sarah wears a sunflower-yellow cotton dress; her scars are perforce on display, but it doesn't seem to matter to her or anyone else.

"I thought you might enjoy one of Poppi's recipes for the main course," Roz is saying. Greg gives himself a mental shake and takes a quick glance around the room. The dining room table is set for four, not with candles and the best service as he expected, but in the relaxed style Sarah uses for informal parties: earthenware, simple utensils and wine goblets made from recycled pressed glass, with linen napkins and tablecloth in muted jewel colors. It's also a relief to find he is seated opposite Roz, with Gene and Sarah at either end; the extra leaves have been removed to make the seating arrangement cozier without being too intimate. There's music on the player too, not the romantic stuff he's been dreading but vintage pop, bluesy and cool. He moves toward Roz's side of the table as she brings a basket of rolls and a bowl of salad with her. When he pulls out her chair she looks surprised, then pleased.

"Thank you," she says softly, and he knows none of her dates has probably ever paid her this simple courtesy.

Soon enough the first course is being served family style. When the wine bottle is handed to Greg he sees it's a chardonnay, Australian as a matter of fact. He squints at the label, then shoots Roz a sharp look.

"Jip Jip Rocks?" he says, incredulous. "You've got to be kidding me. I thought Two Buck Chuck was the bottom of the barrel."

"It's Roz's gift to us for having her over this weekend," Sarah says. "It seemed like a natural choice for first course tonight."

"It's actually pretty good, all things considered," Roz says. She sends him a cheeky little smile, dimples flashing briefly.

Comprehension dawns. "I get it," Greg says, amused. "I teach you to find pitch, you teach me about Aussie wines." Roz tilts her head but says nothing, and in that moment he knows somehow everything will be all right. He nods. "Fair dinkum."

Roz's assessment is accurate-it's a decent quaff to pair with the garden salad; he enjoys the clean lemony-mineral bite, the way it complements fresh basil and smoked mozzarella in a romaine and arugula base. At one point Roz takes a roll, breaks it in half and smears it with the fruity green extra-virgin olive oil served with the course; he follows suit, savoring the rich taste.

"When the first fresh tomatoes come in at the end of July we can have salad _caprese_," Roz says. "We'll have plenty of basil by then too." She wipes her bowl with a last bite of roll.

"You're going to teach me to make mozzarella, right?" Sarah sips her wine.

"We'll need un-homogenized milk." Roz picks some arugula out of the salad and pops it in her mouth, as unselfconscious as a child. "Bob might let us have a couple of gallons straight from the cow. That's the best. We can flavor some of it too. I have a great recipe for mozzarella balls in basil and garlic oil, it's amazing."

Conversation gradually drifts away from food to other things. When Gene gets up to take the plates Greg is surprised to find the last rays of sunlight slanting across the lawn outside.

"The red we have on hand here is okay," Sarah is saying. "It'll hold its own against the main course, anyway."

Before Greg knows it there is a casserole dish beside him, and Roz is offering him the serving spoon. "It's not as good as Poppi's," she says. "He makes the best _puttanesca_ with penne. This isn't too bad, though."

It's incredible. On the first bite Greg can feel his taste buds quivering in sensory orgasm. He puts down his fork, savoring the balanced blend of peppery heat and tomato acidity, the deep, salty mellowness of anchovies and tang of capers coating pasta that is cooked to _al dente_ perfection.

"Excellent," Sarah is saying. Gene nods in agreement, still chewing.

"Your grandfather is a genius," Greg says when he can speak. He sees pleasure brighten Roz's face before she looks away.

"Thanks. I think so too," she says. The quiet pride in her voice warms him.

The evening passes in a pleasant blur; the talk is relaxed, punctuated by laughter, debate and everyday subjects, all of which puts him at ease in a way he's only experienced with Wilson now and then. By the time they've finished dessert the kitchen is shadowed with approaching night. Gene stands up and turns on the pull-down lamp over the table as Roz and Sarah begin to gather the last of the service to rinse and put in the dishwasher. In the soft light the small gems in Roz's ears glitter and wink, hidden and then revealed by her hair as she moves back and forth. Greg watches her, fascinated by the way her slender muscles bunch and relax under her smooth skin. She has wide, strong shoulders, like a swimmer; her musculature is well-defined and suits her slender frame. He was wrong to call her skinny. She's lean, but not thin.

Soon enough the chores are finished. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sarah and Gene slip through the back kitchen entrance into the darkness of the living room; a moment later they are climbing the staircase hand in hand. _Very considerate of them_, he thinks, and brings his attention back to his own situation. Roz is sorting through the cds stacked by the player. She selects one and puts it in. A few moments later Nat King Cole begins to sing. Greg gets to his feet, but Roz stays where she is.

"We don't have to dance," she says. "I just like the music."

For answer he takes his cane from the back of the chair and limps to the mudroom and out the back door. When Roz appears he is lighting several of the numerous citronella candles surrounding the small porch.

"Good idea," she says, and takes a seat. "Otherwise we'll need a mobile blood bank inside of five minutes."

"Hah." He lowers into the chair next to hers and glances at the sky. It's a clear night, the stars beginning to show a little. The lemony scent of the citronella drifts over on a cool breeze, obscuring the faint herby fragrance of Sarah's garden. "Nice night."

"Gorgeous." Roz tips her head back. In the dim light he can see the long line of her throat, the beat of her pulse.

"Why become an electrician?" he asks. Roz chuckles.

"Jumping in with both feet, huh?" She sends him an amused look and leans back, flipping her hair over her shoulder. It settles into place with a shimmer; he resists the temptation to twine a glossy lock around his finger. "Fine by me. Well, I like math, I have a halfway decent memory which makes learning code pretty easy, and the pay's not bad."

"Never thought of going on to college?"

"No money," she says, but the way she says it tells him there was no encouragement either. "How about you? Why'd you become a doctor?"

"Oodles of selfless compassion," he says. "I—I just want to help people."

Roz snorts. "Uh huh."

"You don't believe me?" Greg puts a hand over his heart. "I'm cut to the quick."

"You are such a bullshitter." She is smiling. "Okay, don't tell me." Her acceptance unsettles him; he's expecting the usual humorless and pedantic twenty-questions routine.

"I . . . can't do anything else," he says finally. "I have this one thing . . . I'm really good at solving puzzles. Hence diagnostics."

"I've heard you play," Roz says quietly. "You're an excellent musician."

"Crappy pay, bad contracts, long hours working with jerks," he says. "No wait, that's the job I just quit."

She laughs, a rich dark sound. He is surprised to find he is less wary with her now. She hasn't condemned him for his choices or tried to pry more information out of him; she seems content to let him decide how much to tell her. He sits back in his chair, relaxing a bit. A part of him is still on guard, though, waiting for the inevitable denouement: anger, argument, rejection.

"Do you miss it?" she asks after a time.

_God, yes. _"Maybe," he says aloud. Roz nods her head.

"It's hard for me to remember why I chose this work when I'm up in someone's attic fighting off vermin the size of small dogs and replacing stuff Methuselah's grandpa put in," she says. "Some of the buildings here still have bare wires on porcelain insulators."

He snorts softly. "Bet you've been knocked on your ass a few times."

"More than once." She pauses. "My life's pretty good for the most part though. I have Poppi and Hellboy and my own place. Can't ask for much more than that."

Greg waits a beat. "'Hellboy'?" He gives the word the required ironic tone.

"My cat," she says. "Well, there are three of us who share him. He'll be at Jolie's apartment tonight. She always spoils him rotten."

"Did your grandfather raise you?"

Roz nods. "Yeah, he did. I was five when my mother dumped me off for whatever reason, I don't remember, probably to follow some guy. Nonnawas sick, she had congestive heart failure and Poppi was taking care of her and running the restaurant too. He didn't need me to look after, but he gave me a home and made me welcome. After that I just sort of stayed."

"And you said you didn't believe in fairy tales," he says. "Bet your middle name is Cinderella."

"My middle name is Rosa," she says. "Living with my grandparents wasn't some Hallmark Channel movie, okay? We had tough times but we made it through all right."

"What's your first name?" he asks, more to fend off a recounting of sentimental memories than anything else.

"Helen," she says after a pause. "What's yours?"

"Gregory," he says.

"That's it?" Just Greg?" She thinks about it. "There should be a J name in there somewhere, like John."

He winces. "Nope."

They sit in the soft darkness for a while.

"You haven't asked me about my parents," he says.

"Do you want me to?"

"Uh . . . no." He resists the urge to rub his thigh, an old habit that still shows up in moments of stress. "But I asked about yours. It's only fair—"

"If you want to tell me, tell me," Rosa says. "If not, that's okay."

He is silent, not knowing what to say.

"You were in a military family. You probably traveled quite a bit. I'd like to hear about the places you've lived, if you want to talk about them." She sounds a little wistful. Greg thinks of her upbringing, a life spent in the goldfish bowl of a small village, and feels reluctant sympathy. To push it away he takes refuge in annoyance.

"Why are you doing this?" he demands. "You don't have to coddle me when it comes to difficult subjects—" He pulls up short as realization finally sinks in. "Ah," he says. "Very clever."

"I don't understand." Roz sounds puzzled.

"You had an inkling things weren't peaches and cream with my parents," he says, following the thread and ignoring her protestation of innocence; he expects that as a matter of form. "A well-placed question or two and you get all kinds of information." He nods. "Nicely played."

"No." she turns to face him full on. Even in the faint light he can see she is annoyed. "That's not true."

"It's the truth and nothing but," he says.

"I do not play games. Ever."

"Liar," he says, and feels a sort of cold, distant amusement at her self-deception. "What was that kiss all about the other night then? What's all this talk about getting to know each other instead of having some guilt-free sex with no strings attached? You're nothing but games. Admit it."

He expects her to stand up and take off in offended silence, or possibly dress him down for being an ass. Instead she says very quietly,

"I can't tell you why I kissed you, or why I suggested we try a date. The only thing I know is that I want to be with you."

"Very touching," he sneers. Her words make him uneasy; in fact they frighten him deeply. "But I don't buy it. All those months of us sniping at each other, and now you think you can change things by dangling the lure of sleeping with you as if it's some carrot hanging from a stick in front of a plow mule?" He hears her soft intake of breath and knows he's gone too far, but he forges on just to finish the thing. "Don't overrate yourself. I've seen better carrots."

For a few moments the only sound is the sputter of an untrimmed candle wick and the breeze soughing in the trees around them. Then Roz says,

"I don't know why you're working so hard to push me away. I said before if you don't want to do this, it's all right. Hurting me isn't necessary."

He cannot help but feel shame, though he only says "Fine. Walk away then."

She shakes her head. "Don't want to. You leave."

He stays where he is. "I have as much right as you do to sit here," he mutters.

"Fine." She gets to her feet, marches out to the middle of the garden and plunks into Sarah's windsor chair. Greg watches her, surprised by this action.

"You'll be bled dry," he calls. No answer. She sits with her back to him, her face lifted to the sky.

Five minutes later he puts his lawn chair next to hers and hands her a candle. "Stop being such a martyr."

Roz takes the candle, blows it out and sets it gently on the ground, then returns to ignoring him. Greg rolls his eyes.

"Great. Now we'll both get West Nile virus. Thanks a lot." He sits down carefully, his cane between his knees. The absolute silence from Roz is daunting, but it's nothing he doesn't deserve for panicking. _That's exactly what you did,_ he tells himself, _you freaked out in your usual classic over-the-top style, don't deny it. You'd better make amends, if you can. _That last thought surprises him a little. _Do I want to do that? Guess so. Hmm . . . interesting. That's a first, I think.  
_

"All those things I said last night," he says at last. "Now you know I wasn't kidding." He lets the cane thump softly on the ground a few times, waiting for her reply. When none is forthcoming he nods. "Okay then."

"If you remember, I also told you I'm perfectly capable of deciding for myself when someone's a jerk and when they aren't." The cold shoulder has been replaced by simmering heat. "I wasn't kidding about _that_, either. I've met a lot of jerks in my time and you're nothing but a rank amateur, buster."

He winces but doesn't back off. "Got you good and mad though, didn't I?" he says.

"Says you." She sounds scornful. "Trust me, you haven't seen me mad yet."

"Goody," he says. "Something to look forward to." He lifts his head and squints into the middle distance. "Wanna dance?"

Now she does turn in her chair. He endures her scrutiny by keeping his own gaze fixed firmly on the dim outline of the trees at the edge of the property.

"You're gonna drive me crazy, aren't you." Laughter battles exasperation in her voice.

"Right back atcha," he says. "Tripping the light fantastic or not?"

A few moments later they are on the porch, moving their feet to the faint strains of 'Paper Moon'. It's not exactly dancing, but more than just a clinch. In his arms she is as ethereal as starlight, as earthy as the _puttanesca_ she made for dinner, and all too vulnerable. _I'm going to hurt her again, _he thinks.

"Stop worrying," she says above his heart. Her breath warms his skin through the fabric of his shirt. "It'll be all right."

"How do you know what I'm thinking?" he asks.

"I just do. Shut up," she says. He chuckles.

"You hopeless romantic."

It is late when they go back into the house. At the base of the staircase Roz puts a hand to his cheek. Her small fingers stroke his skin gently. He closes his eyes at her touch, knowing she has every right to give him a slap instead of a caress.

"Good night," she says. For answer he takes her hand in his and stoops to kiss her. When it ends she hesitates but says nothing, only turns and goes up the stairs, her skirts held with care. He stays to watch her. When she reaches her room she doesn't look at him, just goes in and closes the door behind her.

_June 21st_

_Summer Solstice_

_10 a.m._

When Gene and Sarah come downstairs Greg is up, watching the last of a rain-delayed game between the Phils and the Yanks from the previous evening. Gene nods as he heads into the kitchen but Sarah sits next to him, looking expectant.

"So? How did it go?"

He tilts his head. "We're both still alive and the house is in one piece, what more do you need to know?"

She gives an impatient bounce. "Don't tease me! How did it _go_?"

Greg sighs. "She doesn't hate the sight of me. At least not yet." Sarah's face falls.

"What happened?"

"Nothing." He rolls his eyes when she mock-glares at him. "Okay, I told her about the rubbers."

"Aaaaand . . . ?" She draws it out in a questioning tone. Greg narrows his eyes at her.

"Don't you have a love-life of your own? Why do you have to have particulars of mine? I could be asking you all sorts of intrusive and embarrassing questions, but here I am taking the high and noble road . . ."

"I ask because I care about you and Roz," Sarah says as Gene comes into the room.

"And because she won't rest until she knows all the dirt," he says. Sarah throws him a menacing look, but she's trying not to laugh.

"You want to know too," she says. "You just won't admit it."

Gene gives Greg a glance over Sarah's head. _Women,_ that look says. Greg hides a smile. "Yeah, because inside this manly exterior I'm really some goober of a girly girl," Gene says, and laughs when Sarah sticks out her tongue at him. "I'm going for a walk down to Bob's. He's got a new cream separator he needs some help with." And he's gone, the back door banging shut behind him.

"So it really did go well?" Sarah asks, the humor replaced by concern.

"It was all right," Greg says. "Want me to give back the keys to the Civic, Mom?"

"Okay," Sarah says, smiling. "I'm glad it was a good evening." She gets up, stretching a bit. "Were you able to sleep?"

"Yes." He knows she will worry if she thinks he's tired or hurting. Actually, he's neither; the extra medication gave him a solid six hours of dreamless sleep and his leg is none the worse for wear—achy, but nothing he can't handle.

"May I touch you?" When he nods yes, her hand comes to rest on his shoulder, light and comforting. "Well done," she says softly. "I'm proud of you, Greg. Roz is a lucky woman."

"Don't think so," he says, feeling guilty about what he hasn't told her.

"Well, I do. Seems strange not to have her here, doesn't it?" Sarah gives him a gentle pat. "I'll be in the garden if you need me."

After a few minutes he goes to sit in the office. It's truly finished now, pristine and upgraded with all the bells and whistles they could possibly want, and far too empty. He half-expects to see Roz crouched near the wall, muttering under her breath as she works on an outlet, a wiring diagram at her feet.

_When did disliking each other turn into something else? _He can't remember exactly, but it's been a while. _Maybe even since March twenty-first. _He snorts in remembered amusement at Roz's answer and boots up his computer, intent on doing some surfing before he heads into the kitchen to sneak some vodka into Sarah's homemade strawberry lemonade.

[H] [H] [H]

Roz wiped the sweat from her forehead and stared at the crawlspace. _You just know that thing's full of spiders, _she thought, and gave a silent sigh. Without further hesitation she wedged her shoulders into the hole and slid in, struggling to hold the flashlight steady.

An hour later she emerged, filthy and soaked with sweat, exasperated to the nth degree and in no mood for talk of any kind. The repair would take at least a day, not to mention calling in a pest control company to get rid of the squirrels who had taken up residence.

_And to think this time yesterday I was being fitted for a silk dress._ She couldn't help but smile.

"I don't see what there is to be happy about," the owner groused. "Can't you do a temporary fix and come back to work on this tomorrow? I have company this evening and I don't want you getting dust all over everything."

"I can do that," Roz said, "if you don't mind having your house burn down between now and then."

She left in the late afternoon, battling annoyance and a desire to give up her job and return to waiting tables at Poppi's. _At least there all I had to do was dodge customers trying to pinch my ass,_ she thought, and cut through the parking lot at the feed store to save herself some time.

There was nothing in the mail but a clutch of bills and a reminder to call the electric co-op and set up a contract for summer pay-back rates. She tossed everything on the table and looked down as a furry black form wrapped around her ankles.

"Hey Heebie-jeebie," she said, stroking the cat's back. He arched and purred, rubbing his cheek against her leg. "Yeah, I know. I also know you stayed with Jolie all weekend so you're stuffed to the eyeballs, you hog. I guess you still deserve a treat, though."

She was spooning some salmon pate into a bowl when the phone rang. It was Poppi.

_"Ciao, bambina." _His quiet voice sounded the same as always, warm and loving. Roz smiled.

_"Ciao, Poppi. Come va?"_

_"Poco, poco." _He paused. "You sound tired. Come over for dinner."

"I'd love to." She checked the fridge. "Want me to bring over some of that Sangiovese I found last month?"

"Yes, and you can bring your boyfriend too."

"Oh good grief," she said, trying not to laugh. "We've been on one date."

Poppi chuckled. "You know how it is in the neighborhood. And shame on you for not telling me. I had to learn about him from Sandy. She worked evening shift last night, that kid we hired last week didn't show up again." He was silent a moment. "Is he a good man?"

Roz remembered Greg's words slashing at her, cold and pitiless; his arms holding her, gentle and strong at the same time; his kiss, tender and hesitant. "I think he's trying to be. Maybe you can meet him soon, okay?"

"I look forward to it." Poppi sounded cheerful. "Bring the wine. I have _pollo con aglio e basilico_ in the oven and a nice strawberry sorbet for dessert, it'll be perfect."

"Okay. _Ti voglio bene, Poppi. Ciao."_

_"Ciao, bambina."_

Roz hung up and put the bowl of pate on the table. "Enjoy," she said, and stroked the cat's glossy fur as he jumped up to partake. She took the bottle of wine from the fridge, then stopped to look around her place. It was the same as always—neat, comfortable, exactly the right size for one person; she wondered why it felt so empty. After a moment she turned her back on the silent room and went out, closing the door gently behind her.

_('Paper Moon', Nat King Cole_)


	8. Chapter 8

_**(A/N: yes, there is a reference to the BBC tv series **_**Jeeves & Wooster_. _**

_**Re: gramophone usage-I'm ignoring the fact that you have to change the steel needles with every record side you listen to or you risk damaging the grooves. I just didn't feel like having Roz hop up every three to five minutes, it sort of destroys the flow of the story. ;)**_

_**Please give a listen to the music listed at the end of the story. You can find all of it on YouTube, if not iTunes.  
**_

**_Enjoy, and if you are so inclined, please leave a review on your way out, it would really make my day. -B)_**

_June 25th_

_11 a.m._

Sarah sat at the table and placed the letter in front of her. It was innocuous-looking enough: just a thick manila envelope, slightly battered from its trip through the postal system, with their realtor's return address printed in the upper left corner. She stared at it for what seemed like an hour, then took it in her hands once more and opened it.

The paperwork was all in order; because she and Gene had made several years of double and triple payments on the principal they'd accrued a sizeable chunk of equity, which meant even with the reduced asking price and paying off the balance of the mortgage and interest, they'd still get back a respectable amount after fees and taxes.

_And somehow it makes me feel like I've failed. _She rested her head on her fist and gazed unseeing at the tidy pages. _Stupid, but there it is. Some analyst you are, can't even overcome your own neuroses._

"What's the matter?"

Sarah looked up to see Greg standing in the kitchen doorway, watching her. The uncertainty in those piercing blue eyes shook her out of her thoughts.

"Sold the house in town," she said, and sat back. He limped toward the table but stopped a few feet away.

"That's good news, isn't it?" His voice was sharp. Sarah remembered the young boy in her dream, hunched under a miniscule strip of shade in that blistering hot back yard. _He needs honest reassurance,_ she thought. _He still spooks so easily. _

"Yes," she said aloud. "And it makes me sad, too. We'd looked forward to becoming a part of the neighborhood, but it never really happened, we were away too much and we didn't have children." She touched the manila envelope, straightened it a bit. "A young couple bought it. I hope they enjoy living there. It's a nice place for a family."

"You think you flunked some test, don't you?" Greg gave her a hard look. "This is about what you believe Gene gave up."

"I know exactly what he gave up," she said quietly, and didn't fight the pain that came with her words. "Some of it is about that, yes. Some of it—isn't."

Greg pulled out a chair and sat down, still watching her. "Why do you have this hair up your ass about owing your husband someone else's idea of a perfect life? It's idiotic."

Sarah half-smiled. "I know." She picked up her cup of now-cold tea and sipped it anyway. "Old dreams are hard to let go, even when your rational mind tells you it has to be done."

Greg looked away. "Does Gunney know?"

"He will. He's due home shortly." She took comfort in the thought and went into the kitchen, intent on some fresh tea and a scone. When she returned to the table Greg had pulled the papers over to his side and was studying them.

"Nice return," he said. "Your realtor's ripping you off, though."

Sarah nibbled at the scone and set it aside. "She got the place sold even after the federal tax credit ran out at the end of April. In this economy, it's worth paying a little more for hard work."

Greg snorted. "You and that bleeding heart of yours." He pushed the papers back to her. "Fine, waste your money." He got to his feet. "I need to borrow the truck."

"Help yourself." She started putting papers back into the envelope. "Business in town?" She glanced up in time to catch a fleeting expression of what looked like guilty excitement on Greg's face before he turned away.

"Um-yeah." He headed off at high speed. Sarah watched him, amused at his obvious discomfort. _Maybe he's meeting Roz for lunch. I hope so. _After a moment she rose and took the letter to the office, then went outside to pick raspberries.

_2:15 p.m. _

She had canned one batch of jam and had just started processing another when she heard the front door bang, and then the familiar thump of Gene's overnight bag hitting the floor. She smiled, wiped her hands on her apron and turned in time to see Gene come into the kitchen with a grocery sack cradled in one arm. He placed it on the counter as she moved to him and gave him a long embrace, followed by a kiss. When it ended he smiled down at her, the tired lines in his strong features erased for the moment.

"Happy birthday," he said. "Forty-five years to the day."

"I'm just catchin' up with you," she said. "Let me finish the jam and I'll make some lunch."

"Nope." Gene reached behind her and untied her apron strings. "You get to open my first present while I take care of things."

Her gift was a fountain pen with a gold nib and barrel done millefiori-style, the soft colors pleasing. It came with a leather-bound journal, the cover embossed with Celtic knotwork, the pages handmade paper with small dried flowers pressed into the fibers.

"I found it in a little bookstore outside Philly," Gene said after she had repaid him with a kiss. "Called your name clear across the room." He tested the skillet, then put in two ham steaks. As they sizzled and popped Sarah sniffed the delicious scent of frying pork, savoring it.

"You always remember," she said.

"Yup, I do." Gene opened the sack and pulled out a white box. "We can do redeye too. I bought some biscuits at the bakery."

Soon enough they sat down to lunch. Sarah dipped her biscuit in the gravy and munched, watched Gene inhale fried ham, and readied herself to impart the latest news.

"Got a letter from Marie," she said, and sipped her iced tea. "The house was sold."

Gene paused in sopping a biscuit. "When?"

"Paperwork came just today." She picked up her fork, put it back down. "It's on my desk."

He set aside the biscuit, wiped his fingers on his napkin and reached out to clasp her hand. Sarah dropped her gaze.

"I'm so sorry," she said.

"You have nothing to apologize for," he said. "I wish you would understand that, Sarah. Marrying you was the best thing I've ever done, and will do."

"Thanks," she said after she had control of her voice once more.

"Welcome." He let go of her hand. "Eat your lunch. You've got another present waiting, but you don't get it until you clean your plate."

"You just wanna fatten me up," she said, trying to summon a smile.

"Damn straight I do, honey," Gene said in his best Nebraska twang, "that way there'll be more of ya t'love," and she snorted in reluctant amusement.

When Sarah had finished he handed her an envelope. _This must be my day for them,_ she thought, and opened it with care.

"Cape May," she said after reading the letter inside. "Two weeks in September at the Doctor's Inn." She looked at him, delight struggling with concern. "But we decided not to go this year."

"It's something of a treat after the medicine," Gene said. He paused. "I've been asked to go back to Haiti."

Sarah's spirits plummeted further. _Damn. _"When?"

"July first. I'd stay till the end of August." He was silent a moment. "It's your decision, Sarah. If you don't want me to go, I won't."

"I wouldn't ask that of you," she said softly. "You need to do this."

He exhaled long and slow, always a sign of stress for him. "I know this is difficult for you."

"You need to do this," she said again, very quietly. "You have my full and unconditional support."

He was silent for a long while. Then he said "Thank you, Sarah Jane."

"Agreeing to stay at the Inn for two weeks makes it a fair trade," she said, giving him a slight smile. "I know it's too frou-frou for you."

"By the time I get back, afternoon tea might be less of an ordeal," he said, and leaned in to kiss her. She returned it, her hands coming up to rest on his shoulders.

"Aw jeez," Greg said from the front door. "You two are a total cliché." He limped into the room. "Sickening."

"Hello to you too," Gene said when the kiss was finished. He got to his feet and gave Sarah a look that made her blink. "Let's go upstairs."

"I'm assuming you're not talking to me," Greg said. Gene spared him a sardonic glance, but he was smiling a little. Sarah stared at Greg. He stared back at her, innocence personified. Suspicion blossomed.

"What's going on?"

"I have a short time to get a lot done, that's what's going on," Gene said. He quirked an eyebrow at her, his dark eyes gleaming. "Wanna help me with that?"

Greg started humming 'Afternoon Delight' under his breath. Sarah rolled her eyes.

"Oh, good grief," she said. "Fine." She headed for the stairs, Gene close behind her. On the third step he pinched her butt hard enough to make her jump and squeak.

"Ew," Greg groaned. "You're forcing me out of the house. Don't end up on the couch naked or I'll be blinded for life when I come home."

Sarah took a moment to savor his use of the word 'home' before Gene herded her into the bedroom and shut the door. When he reached out to tug gently on her tank top she took his hands in hers, spun him around and toppled him onto the bed, straddling his thighs.

"I don't know what cahoots you've got goin' with that fifty-plus juvenile delinquent, and I don't care," she said, and began to unbutton his shirt. "You want me, y'all got me."

"I think it's more that you've got me," Gene said. "Not complaining, just saying." He shrugged out of his shirt and put his hands behind his head, smirking. "Have you wicked way with me, darlin'."

Sarah stared down at him, a little smile curving her lips. "Fine by me," she said, and did as he asked.

[H] [H] [H]

Greg waits until the door shuts upstairs, then goes to the front door and gives the all-clear. Roz hops out of her truck and brings the cake carrier with her, moving carefully over the grass.

It takes all of fifteen minutes to get the kitchen set up and put the cake in the fridge along with a bottle of wine. While Roz sets the table he slips into the office for a moment. Then the two of them are on their way to her place.

It's strange riding shotgun in her truck; the little stuffed rabbit hanging in a noose from her rear view mirror, the two by fours reinforcing the rusted floor, and a bright purple bumper sticker on the glove-box door asking 'What Would Xena Do?' all take some getting used to. But the radio is tuned to a classic rock station, so things could be a lot worse.

"I have to finish up a job in town after I drop you off, but it's only a couple of hours and then I'll be back," Roz is saying. "I think you'll be able to keep yourself entertained until I come home. I've got satellite tv and radio, and there's always the computer. It's set up for gaming."

"Okay," he says, and keeps an eye peeled for cops as she cuts through the feed store parking lot to beat the light at the intersection. "Uh—you do know you live in a small town, don't you?"

"Don't worry," Roz says. "Randall won't go after anyone unless it's the end of the month. He does the same thing himself when he's in a hurry." She threads her way through the cars parked illegally in the fire lane and comes out onto a narrow street. It turns into an alley lined with overgrown hedges and shade trees. When she pulls up in front of an old frame house Greg peers at it.

"You rattle around in that whole thing all by yourself?" he asks.

"No, just the downstairs. The second floor apartment is empty right now. It's kinda nice, I can play my music and no one bangs on the floor." She takes a set of keys off the ring in the ignition. "Make yourself at home. See you shortly."

He lets himself into the house, feeling awkward and not a little apprehensive, and shuts the door behind him. It's quiet; he looks around, getting his bearings. He's not sure what he expected, but it isn't to see a room furnished in halfway decent taste, even if the chairs and couch are secondhand and a bit on the shabby side. One wall is lined with overflowing bookshelves. He approaches slowly and finds the titles are a mix of classic fiction, non-fiction and a fair collection of graphic novels. But what really catches his attention is the Victrola sitting close by. It appears to be functional, a surmise supported by the row of 78s lined up on the bottom row of the shelves. He props his cane in a corner out of the way, then lifts the cover on the gramophone. It is in pristine condition and the stylus holds a needle. He tries the switch and the turntable starts up.

"Cool," he says under his breath, and limps over to an easy chair several feet away. He pulls it over to the gramophone, sits down, then gently takes the first record out of the lineup. With care he removes the paper sleeve and looks it over, holding the disc on the edges with his palms. He places it on the turntable and puts the needle in the groove. There are a few crackles, and then the music starts. He listens for a moment, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. After a moment he gets up and limps into the kitchen, to return with a cold beer. He pops the top and sits back, surprised to find he is comfortable and maybe even entertained just a little.

_6:30 p.m._

Roz pulled up in front of the house and put the truck in park, then switched off the engine. She got out and went around to the other side to get the pizzas she'd picked up at Poppi's. As she neared the front door she could hear music playing faintly from the interior. The sound made her smile. _He found Nonna's Victrola._

When she entered she discovered Greg sitting by the gramophone, hands folded over his spare middle, head tipped back. She came a little closer, intrigued by the relaxation evident in his features. In the warm evening light filtering through the window it was possible to see glints of chestnut in his graying hair. She wondered what he'd looked like as a young man. _Handsome in his own way, with those strong features . . . hard to tell though._

But he wasn't asleep; as she approached he glanced over at her, then away. "Why the hell do you have this thing?" he asked. For answer she set down the boxes, knelt on the floor and picked out a record. She handed it to him, noting as she did so that he had stacked the records he'd listened to against the shelf. _He knows they shouldn't be piled flat. Smart man. _"This is my favorite," she said aloud.

Greg stood and replaced the record on the turntable with the disc she'd given him. Roz got to her feet and took the pizzas into the kitchen. When the song began to play she smiled and sang under her breath.

"Forty-seven ginger headed sailors/coming home across the briny sea . . ."

She got out two plates and a stack of paper napkins while the pizzas reheated in the oven. They could eat in the living room if she brought out the tv tray; she didn't think Greg would be comfortable sitting at the table in her small kitchen.

"You never answered my question," he said when she came into view with the tray and plates. Roz set the tray to one side, pulled a battered ottoman up next to the chair and perched on it.

"It was my grandmother's. When she passed away she gave it and her collection to me." She listened to the music for a moment. "When I'm lonely for her I play a few records. She used to sing this one to me when I was little. Nonna had a beautiful voice." She paused, remembering.

"What's for dinner?" Greg stretched a little and sat up.

"Pizza. I brought home a couple of pies from Poppi's." She hesitated. "If you'd rather have something else . . ."

"Pizza's fine."

It was actually more enjoyable than she'd thought it would be, listening to music and sharing the evening meal together. She found herself relaxing as they traded the occasional comment. He didn't eat much, but seemed to enjoy both the food and her company.

After everything had been cleared away and put in order they moved to the couch. Roz turned on the tv and sat next to Greg. She handed him the remote.

"Feel free."

He didn't look at her. "You're not going to fight me for control of the tv?"

"No." There was no point in telling him she'd watched her mother use such methods in aid of conquest and domination. She tucked her legs to the side and leaned back, settling into the soft cushions with a quiet sigh.

Half an hour later she woke to find she was curled against Greg's side. His arm encircled her, his hand resting on her outer thigh. Roz peered up at him and found he wore something very much like a smirk.

"You snore," he said. "Good to know."

"Sorry, long day," she mumbled, and started to sit up. Greg's arm held her right where she was, not by using force, but with the simple technique of cradling her hip in his hand, his lean fingers massaging her in slow, gentle circles. Roz stopped trying to move away from him. After a moment she put her cheek to his chest once more, unable to keep from smiling. Greg made a noise that might have been a laugh and changed the channel.

[H] [H] [H]

_2:30 a.m._

Sarah crept down the stairs. The house was dark and quiet, with only the single lamp she'd left on still burning. Greg's bedroom door was closed though, so he'd made it back home. She slipped through the living room and into the kitchen, took a cold ginger beer from the fridge, stole a cream puff from her birthday cake, and went into the office. Laynie always sent her a message; she might even be up still, working on data and willing to talk.

As she sat at her desk she noticed a flash drive sitting atop her keyboard. Frowning a little, she picked it up and turned it over. There was a label on the other side: BIRTHDAY MIX. Sarah grinned. Lately she and Greg had been trading song lists, an unspoken exchange of personal favorites. She booted up her computer and popped the drive into an available port, then started the media player, the volume turned down to keep from waking everyone else.

The first song was a surprise; she hadn't thought Greg liked Paul McCartney's solo work. When the lyric began she listened, caught by the opening words. When Paul had reached the middle eight her eyes were full of tears. _I really didn't understand,_ she thought. _I really didn't get it._ When the song ended she sat there, overwhelmed. She wiped her eyes and found her fingers were trembling. Then the next track started and she had to laugh.

"'You say it's your birthday,'" she sang softly, "'It's my birthday too, yeah . . .'" She got up on her feet and began to dance as requested, happiness expanding inside her like sunlight. _What a birthday,_ she thought. _Ups and downs, big ones, but we'll manage. _She hugged the knowledge to herself and kept on dancing.

_'Forty-Seven Ginger-Headed Sailors', Jack Hylton and his Orchestra_

_'Follow Me', Paul McCartney_

_'Birthday', the Beatles_


	9. Chapter 9

**_(A/N: yes, I am a baseball fan. Grew up listening to Ernie Harwell calling Tiger games, saw Detroit win the '68 World Series; my father also played slow-pitch softball in the local oldtimers league for years. There simply is nothing like a hot summer afternoon spent in the bleachers, watching a couple of teams slug it out with enthusiasm. The only thing better is to be down there playing too. So I couldn't resist giving Greg a chance to participate, sort of-as you will see. I'm really proud of the final scene in this chapter; it was a total delight to write and brought up many happy memories of Fourth of July pickup games and coming home dirty, skinned up and exhausted, but thoroughly entertained._**

**_Btw, I know most players today use aluminum bats. I consider them an abomination and a tool of the devil, if not an outright sign of impending apocalypse. Hence Greg uses a wooden bat._**

**_Finally, check out the music used to help write the chapter-John Fogerty's wonderful song 'Centerfield'. It should be baseball's national anthem. Great song.  
_**

**_Hope you enjoy this chapter. If you are so inclined, please leave a review on your way out-it would really make my day. Thanks for reading. :) -B)  
_**

_July 4__th_

_11 a.m._

When Greg emerges from his bedroom it is to find Sarah lugging a smallish cardboard box crammed full of comestibles through the living room and out the front door. He squints at her retreating figure, then goes into the kitchen to get some breakfast.

He is ensconced on the couch watching tv and eating cereal when she comes back in. He eyes her as she walks by, but says nothing. A few minutes later she is back, this time carrying what looks like a stack of blankets and a cooler. When she returns she's on her cell phone.

"What else do we need? . . . Okay . . . I have that . . . Lemons? Nope . . . Okay . . . What about tomatoes for the BLTs? . . . Yeah . . . We have a bat . . . Okay. I'll see you at the park, sis. 'Bye." She heads into the kitchen.

Eventually Greg brings his empty bowl and his spoon to the sink. As he is rinsing them off he watches Sarah, who is in the mudroom digging through the clobber of boots, raincoats and gardening tools, presumably to find the aforementioned bat. When she comes in with it Greg holds up his dripping hands.

"I promise to behave," he says. Sarah smiles at him but says nothing. "What's going on?" he asks as he puts his breakfast things in the dishwasher, though he has a good idea what all this bustle is about.

"Picnic at the park," she says. "I told you last night."

He has a vague recollection of her saying something to him while he was engrossed in watching something on tv. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"If you want to come with me, I'm leaving in about twenty minutes," Sarah says. "Roz will be there."

"You really think that's some kind of inducement," he says, heavy on the sarcasm.

"Twenty minutes," Sarah says again, and lays the bat over her shoulder before she goes into the living room.

It takes him fifteen minutes to get washed up and into clean jeans and a tee shirt. He keeps trying to find a reason to stay home—it's too hot, it's a public setting, being seen with Roz will cause even more gossip in the village—but none of his excuses will hold water. He is sitting in the truck when Sarah emerges from the house. She pops into the driver's seat and starts up Minnie.

"I'm glad you're coming," she says, and means it. Greg glances at her, sees the loneliness she usually keeps hidden. He says nothing though, just looks out the window as they progress down the lane toward the village.

The 'park' is really nothing more than a big open field, but there are a few shade trees here and there. As they are directed to a parking spot by one of the volunteer firemen Greg glimpses Roz headed their way with a cooler and a beach umbrella. His eyes widen.

_She cut her hair._ It is much shorter, a classic bob style. Released from the weight of length, the dark glossy locks frame her face with loose waves that bounce as she walks. It's incredibly sexy, giving her features a sultry air he finds tantalizing. It helps that she's wearing that black lacy tank top he's seen her in before, and a pair of cutoff jeans that are short enough to showcase her long legs without being slutty.

"You're about to start drooling," Sarah says. There is a subtle laugh in her tone. Greg turns his head as Roz comes over to his side of the truck. To his secret delight she leans in through the open window and kisses the corner of his mouth. Her lips are soft against his skin; an errant strand of hair brushes his cheek, smelling of rosemary and chamomile.

"Glad you came," she says softly, and gives Sarah a smile. "We're set up in a good spot."

"'We'?" Greg inquires, though he already knows the answer.

"Poppi's here too," Roz says. Her green eyes spark with humor. "He says it's a good excuse to get out of the restaurant and make something besides pizza and onion rings."

Greg gives Sarah a glare. "That's great!" she says, ignoring him. "Let's get settled in and start the grill."

As always, he finds it embarrassing to be what amounts to useless when it comes to carrying things. He can manage a cooler, but that's all. No one else seems to care though; Sarah and Roz walk on either side of him, chatting away. He watches Roz's hair flutter in the soft breeze and wishes he could find someplace private to lay her down and . . .

"Hey Lou," Sarah says. Once again Greg pulls his mind back into the moment at hand and finds they are approaching an older man seated in a fabric folding chair next to a blanket spread over the grass. There are big cushions placed here and there, along with more of the folding travel chairs. The man gets to his feet. He is of average height, with black hair almost gone silver and the same strong, sardonic features as his granddaughter, deepened and lined with time and experience. His slight smile is the real thing though.

"Sarah," Lou says, and turns his attention to Greg. In one quiet glance he takes in the cane, the cooler and everything else; his inspection is swift, all encompassing, but not unfriendly. "You must be Greg."

"I must be," Greg says. The older man nods.

"Lou Lombardi," he says. "Roz has told me about you." There is the slightest accent in his words. "I'm glad you decided to join us."

Greg shrugs. "No reason not to." He sets down the cooler and watches as Sarah and Roz head off to the truck together, talking away. "Exactly how much has Roz told you?"

"Enough." Lou gestured at the chair next to his. "Have a seat."

"No uselessly macho gestures like hauling boxes and bags. I like it." Greg puts the cooler down and settles cautiously into the chair, unsure whether it will hold his weight. It sinks a bit but seems sturdy enough; he relaxes a little, at least physically.

"They bring everything out, we'll take it back later." Lou sits as well. "What do you think of Roz?"

Relaxation vanishes. _Shit._ He should have expected this, but still he's been caught by surprise. "She's prickly," he says after a few moments, and winces. Lou chuckles softly.

"She can be," he says. "I'm sure by now you know she's got a strong heart."

Greg looks at his feet. "If by that you mean she's stubborn and ridiculously emotional, yes."

"Just like my wife," Lou says. "There were moments when I wanted to strangle the woman, but the rest of the time she more than made up for it. I'm sure she felt the same way about me." He is silent a moment. "If you decide you want my granddaughter, give her honesty. That _buffone_ she had before . . ." He shakes his head. "Nothing but lies and charm. He hurt her intentionally. I don't want to see that happen again. She doesn't deserve it."

Greg is saved from replying by the return of the women. Soon enough they are all involved in setting up the picnic lunch. Other groups are coming in now, claiming spots under the shade. No one comes near however until the Buttermans arrive and set up camp a few feet away.

"Unca Greg!" Chelsea makes a beeline for him and jumps into his lap. He grits his teeth to hold in a hiss when her foot kicks his bad thigh. With gentle hands he picks her up and sets her in front of him, holding her in place when she tries to climb back up.

"Chelsea." Her mother Marti's voice is firm. "Stop. You're hurting him." She swoops in to move the little girl away, giving Greg a questioning glance. "Are you all right?" He nods and gets to his feet.

"Be right back," he says, and limps to the truck. Once there, he gets into the passenger side and closes the door, then unzips his jeans and tugs them down over his hips with care. Chelsea has dislodged two of the TENS unit pads, but everything else looks okay. He is getting out the little tube of sticky gel he always carries with him just in case when a shadow falls over the window.

"Are you—" Roz stops. Greg doesn't have to look up at her to know she's just caught sight of his ruined thigh. He continues putting gel on the first pad, not wanting to see the expression of disgust and horror on her face. After a moment her hand comes to rest on his shoulder.

"Did she do any damage?"

"Hard to mess up what isn't there." He puts the pad in place and works on the second one, shrugging off her touch. "Enjoying the freak show?"

Her hand lifts to his cheek for a moment. He won't let himself take comfort from the feel of her fingers against his skin. "It's just a scar."

"Oh, nicely said. Next you'll be telling me it doesn't matter to you that I have a massive chunk of muscle carved out of my leg." He puts the second pad where it belongs and settles back, closing his eyes as he waits for the pain to ease.

"Well, it doesn't." She says it simply. Greg bows his head.

"Then you're an idiot. It should matter," he says, his voice rough with anger. "I can't carry groceries, climbing a flight of stairs takes forever, and no sex unless I'm on my back. Hell, I need a damn half hour handicap as it is." He can't keep the bitterness out of his words now.

Roz's hand finds his chin and gently turns his face to hers. "I'm perfectly capable of carrying in groceries. We can use escalators and elevators, and if we can't find any, we'll go up the stairs one step at a time. And just so you know, a half hour handicap for sex suits me right down to the ground." She stoops to kiss him, not a chaste buss on the lips this time but a delicious invasion that has fireworks going off in his head long before any darkness falls.

"I think we can get around the on-your-back dilemma too," she says when the kiss is finished. "It'll be fun to try anyway, don't you think?"

"You're driving me crazy," he whispers against her mouth. She takes his bottom lip in her teeth and tugs gently before she lets him go and straightens.

"Good," she says. "Walk back with me, Sarah and Poppi are setting out lunch and I'm hungry."

"I can get there by myself," he growls, struggling to pull up his jeans. It's harder than it should be because _he's _harder.

"I know. Maybe I'd like to walk with you. Ever think of that?"

It dawns on him then that more is going on than meets the eye. She wants to be seen with him; by doing so she is telling everyone else they're a couple. He's concerned about that, mainly for her sake, but it's too late; she's opening the door. He zips up his fly with some difficulty, fastens the snap and swings his legs out in slow motion, testing to make sure the pads won't dislodge again. Then he grips his cane and stands. Roz moves next to him. He pauses, debating. When he holds out his hand finally she takes it, no hesitation on her part at all. When he moves forward she is beside him, her steps matching his.

Lunch is the feast Greg knew it would be, especially with the Buttermans sharing their bounty. He ends up with a plain bacon sandwich (dry), chips and a grilled peach half; he's not really all that hungry, but he needs to eat something in case he has to take an extra painkiller. Roz is settled on a cushion next to his chair, munching an ear of sweet corn while carrying on an intermittent conversation with Chelsea, who is attacking a handful of chips and a small hamburger like they're her last meal. _Another burger and fries girl in the making_, Greg thinks. He glances at Roz, who is laughing at something Chelsea said. She looks comfortable and at ease, a far cry from the withdrawn young woman he'd met some months ago.

"Do you need another Lyrica?" Sarah quiet voice dispels his thoughts. He shakes his head; the pain has reduced to a deep ache, nothing he can't handle. "Okay. If you change your mind, I've got some extras with me just in case."

He is about to reply when he sees Rick Hutch headed their way. Greg's gut tightens. Roz has seen him too; he feels her draw closer to him. The younger man stops a few feet away. He has a cooler in one hand, a blanket rolled up and tucked under his arm. His expression brightens when he sees Roz.

"Rosie," he says, and then as an afterthought, "Lou."

"Rick," Roz says. "Happy Fourth." Lou nods at Rick but says nothing, his face impassive. His dark eyes speak volumes, however.

"I brought enough for two," Rick lifts the cooler.

"That's nice," Roz says, as calm as you please. "Tony will be glad to hear it."

"He's in Albany with his girlfriend," Rick says. He shoots Greg a glare. "I'd hoped you and I could have lunch together."

"I'm already eating lunch," Roz says, still polite but with a slight edge to her words now. "Thanks for the offer though."

Rick doesn't budge. "Can I talk to you?"

"Take a hint," Greg says.

"Make me," Rick says, his tone ugly. Roz wipes her hands on a napkin, sets her plate aside and rises to her feet.

"I'll be right back," she says to Greg, and goes to Rick. They walk off together, Rick's head bent as he listens to Roz. After a few minutes he stops and turns to face her. They are just out of earshot, but the body language is unmistakable. Rick makes a choppy gesture with his free hand, his body shaking with the force of his expression. Roz shakes her head and says something that causes Rick's face to darken. He sends Greg another look, hot with baffled fury, and stalks off. When Roz returns Greg gives her a onceover. She is not upset; there is no color in her cheeks, and her eyes are calm. She resumes her seat at his side, picks up her plate and continues as if there had been no interruption.

It is later on, when everyone is stretched out for a post-prandial nap, that Roz says "I don't care about him at all, you know." They occupy their own blanket under a shade tree, some distance from the others; they are lying together, her head pillowed on the join of his arm and chest. Greg is not too sure about this arrangement, but he's comfortable and she's obviously content to be where she is, so he lets it go.

"I gathered," he says, his tone dry. "I'm surprised he's still intact."

"Hey, I didn't go for his manhood," Roz says. "I just told him the truth."

"And that would be?" Greg prompts when she falls silent.

"He needs to stop chasing me because I'm someone else's girl." She pauses. "I am, aren't I?"

Here it is, the one question he's done his best to avoid through the last few weeks, and yet now that it's come down to the decision he already knows the answer.

"Yeah, I guess you are," he says. After a moment her hand slips into his, her fingers cool and dry, her touch gentle.

"Good," she says.

They laze in the warm afternoon shade until Sarah comes over and plops down next to them.

"Game's on shortly," she said. "They're choosing teams. You two interested?"

Greg snorts, but Roz says "Yeah, we're interested. We'll be there."

Sarah glances at Greg but says nothing, just gets to her feet. "Okay. See you shortly then." When she's gone he struggles up on one elbow to look down at Roz.

"Let's get something straight. You don't have the right to speak for me," he says. "No way can I play ball. Weren't you the one who recently got a good look at my leg?" Anger wars with a deeper emotion, one he knows all too well—anguish, a feeling he despises with every molecule of his being. "I couldn't make it to first base."

"You can bat, can't you?" Roz says. "You're a power hitter, I'm thinking. Total slugger. You used to knock 'em right out of the park, I'll bet."

"Yeah, but what—"

"I can't hit a ball for love nor money. So you bat. I'll run for you." She grins at him. "I can run like hell. We're the perfect team."

He pushes himself into a sitting position and eyes her legs thoughtfully. "What's the point?"

"The only way Rick will understand that we're a couple is if he sees us working together. We do this, he'll give up more easily. Besides, it'll be fun." Roz gets to her feet and offers him a hand. "Come on, you need to get limbered up."

Much to his bemusement, a short time later he finds himself doing exactly that. He stands off to the side, swinging a couple of bats around his shoulders and listening to Roz argue with the captain of the opposing team who happens to be Rick Hutch.

"He can't run," Rick is saying. "Is this a joke or something? He's a fucking _cripple_. He'll just be humiliated."

Greg fights the urge to hurl a bat at Rick's head and continues his warmup, pretending he isn't listening.

"I'll run for him. How hard is that to understand? I've said it three times," Roz says. She gives Rick a disgusted look.

"I'm for it," Rob says. "They're on my team, that all right with you?"

Rick makes a dismissive gesture. "Okay, fine. Whatever. It's your funeral."

They're placed fourth in the lineup. Greg is surprised to find his hands are sweating. _It's just a pickup game,_ he tells himself. _It's just a stupid four-inning joke. _But he chooses a bat and takes a few practice swings. It's been a long time since he's played, but the feel of the sun on his shoulders, the heft of the wooden slugger in his hands, they're all familiar. He knows a moment of sadness, remembering his last game. He'd slammed out a home run and strutted the bases with the arrogance of an athlete in his prime, someone who thinks he's got plenty of time to score all the runs in the world. Now here he stands, older, almost broken, nearly defeated, but ready to give the game a ride one more time. _Put me in, coach,_ he thinks, and snorts in amusement.

With the flip of a coin their side ends up starting off. Greg waits in the shade of a tree, watching as the first batter goes to the plate. She'll strike out, that's apparent from the very first pitch; she swings at anything that comes her way. The second batter isn't much better. The third is made of sterner stuff, however. Sarah steps up, confident and relaxed. Her curls are tied back in an untidy ponytail and she has on a borrowed cap to shade her eyes. She glances at Greg and gives him a tight grin, then circles the bat in her hands, spreads her feet slightly and faces Rick as he begins his windup.

The first pitch gets by her and is declared a strike. Rob comes over to give the ump a piece of his mind regarding that call. Sarah joins in, and Greg can't help but smile at the sound of a heated rhubarb, one of the sacred rites of the game. Eventually the matter is settled, though not to Rob's satisfaction, and events continue. On the third pitch Sarah whacks out a respectable grounder. Because the infield player drops the catch from the tip of his mitt she's able to stretch it into a double . . . and now Greg's up.

He steps to the plate, takes his stance, swinging the bat a time or two to get it settled in his hands. He sees a cold glint in Rick's eye as Roz moves into position and crouches, ready to run, and thinks _He's gonna try to bean me._ Sure enough, the first pitch goes scorching by within a hairsbreadth of hitting him. He pulls back and hears the ump yell "Strike!"

"MY _ASS_! ARE YOU FRIGGIN' _BLIND_? THIS IS SLOW PITCH, NOT BEANBALL!" Rob roars as Rick gives Greg a little _gotcha_ smirk. In that moment Greg has the measure of the man. He's faced jerks like this before; their downfall is something they'd never know about-his ability to spot-analyze their weaknesses. Deliberately he relaxes his posture, circles the bat, and as Rick is in the middle of his windup, glances at Roz and then gives the other man a slight smile, brows raised. Rick loses his composure as well as control of the pitch, just as Greg knew he would. It comes in slow, low and soft as a baby's butt. He hits it for all it's worth.

There is a sound every ball player knows, a wonderful brilliant _crack_ created by the ball's collision with the bat's sweet spot, a sound wave borne of resonating hardwood and hardened hide parting ways that tells the batter a very good thing's just happened. Greg hears it and knows he's just hit a bona fide homer. The cover almost rips off the ball as it streaks across the diamond in a blazing line drive. He turns to Roz and yells at her to go, but she's already at first. She's right, she _can _run like hell. Sarah rounds third and is on her way to home when the right fielder grabs the dripping-wet ball out of the tall weeds by the creek at the far end of the park and hurls it infield in a desperate effort to get it into play. It spins and sinks as outfielders, nearly running into each other, scrabble to get their hands on it. Roz touches second and goes for third, head down, her slender calves pumping like pistons. Greg is aware people are shouting all around him, catches a glimpse of Lou standing in silence as he watches Roz, but Greg's got his eye on Rick, who is reaching out and up. Sarah flies by Greg, stomping the bag hard to make sure the ump sees her score the run, and then Roz hits third and keeps going, leaping down the line like a gazelle as Rick catches the ball and snaps it to home.

"_**SLIDE!**__** SLIDE**__**!**_" Greg bellows. Without hesitation Roz lays into the dirt, legs stretched out. She comes in over the bag one heartbeat before the ball thumps into the catcher's mitt. The ump spreads his arms—she's safe. Rick hurls his cap to the ground as Roz gets up covered with dust, her right thigh and knee skinned to hell, one shoe gone, but the grin on her face is the most beautiful thing Greg has seen in years. She runs to him; their arms go around each other and they spin, Roz laughing like a loon. He staggers, unable to stop himself from sharing her happiness even as he tries to stay on his feet.

"I told you! I knew we'd be great together!" she is shouting, and then she kisses him, dirt and all. He kisses her back, his heart expanding in a feeling he never thought he'd know again. As he rights them both, he breaks off to take a breath and looks for Sarah. Instead he finds himself face to face with the last person on earth he thought he'd see here . . . his erstwhile best friend, James Evan Wilson, brown eyes wide with complete, unbelieving astonishment.

'_Centerfield', John Fogerty_


	10. Chapter 10

**_(A/N: MissBates sussed me out-you got a cliffhanger last chapter, so you get a midweek posting. Please forgive typos or other mistakes, I haven't had any quiet hours to write for almost a week and my concentration, not to mention my patience, wore thin while writing. All is well now however, so enjoy and as always, please leave a review on your way out if you're so inclined, it would really make my day. -B)_**

_July 4__th_

_5 p.m._

"I am NOT going to the hospital." Roz folded her arms and gave both Greg and Sarah a stony glare. "It's just a couple of scrapes and a bruise or two. I can clean up at home and come back in time for the fireworks."

"Sure, if you want a serious infection. Not to mention tetanus." Greg returned her stare, openly scornful, but she saw just a hint of worry there too. "When's the last time you had a booster?"

"Two years ago." She tilted her head. "If I don't speak for you, you don't tell me what to do. Deal?"

"Nope." He got to his feet. "You've got at least four deep gouges and your heel is in shreds. Medical center, now."

"I'll take her." Poppi spoke quietly from somewhere behind Roz. She turned to face him and winced as her injured leg protested the movement. She was starting to stiffen up; in another hour or two there would be real hell to pay, and she didn't even want to think about tomorrow morning. _It was worth it though_, she thought, remembering the way Greg had held her close, laughing in pure joy as they spun together in slow circles over home base.

"You don't order me around either," she snapped. "I'm not five years old. I can take care of myself."

"Roz." Sarah put a hand on her back, light and comforting. "I'm asking as a friend—please listen to Greg and your grandfather and do as they ask. It's important."

Roz rolled her eyes. "So you're blackmailing me now too."

"You need to have those scrapes cleaned up and your foot checked out. It's just common sense," Sarah said. Her hand moved in a slow circle, rubbing gently. "You can crash on our couch tonight if you want. It's nice and comfy. The tv's right there, you can watch the fireworks from Washington or Philly. I'll put the fans on." She paused and gave Greg a sly glance fizzing with humor. "You can borrow one of Greg's tee shirts to sleep in."

"Yeesh," Greg said. "Fine. At least you won't stretch it out of shape."

"Jerk." She hesitated. "Can I have some iced tea and a slice of peach pie with vanilla ice cream?" Roz knew she should work harder not to give in too quickly, but the pain was getting worse and she wanted nothing more than to lie down, get comfortable and finagle a treat while she was at it.

"You bet." Sarah patted her back. "Go with Lou. I'll meet you at the house."

Roz nodded and glanced at Greg. He was watching Sarah, frowning.

"Why aren't you going with her?" he asked.

"I have my reasons," Sarah said quietly. Roz saw her look at their visitor, the dark-haired man who waited with some impatience a short distance away.

"Come on," Poppi said, and came forward to put an arm around Roz's waist. She tried to move away and bit her lip as her injured heel sent a spasm of pain up her leg. With reluctance she allowed her grandfather to help her to the truck.

"What about your car?" She settled into the passenger side with a silent sigh of relief, and jumped when Greg leaned his head in through the open window.

"If she fights with the nurse I want all the details," he said to Poppi, hesitated, then kissed Roz. His touch was tender, hesitant, and yet somehow reassuring. When it was done he held her gaze, his blue eyes very bright. "Hah," he said. "You taste like dirt," and left her there, surprised into silence.

"Well, at least he's found an effective way to get you to cooperate," Poppi said, and started the engine. "I'll pick up the car later."

"Um," Roz said, still tingling from the feel of Greg's mouth on hers, the searching look in those brilliant eyes. _I think maybe . . . __maybe__, he just told me I really am his girl. Holy cow. _"Yeah . . . okay. What?"

Poppi chuckled and put the truck in gear. "You got it bad, _bambina_," he said, and headed out of the field.

[H] [H] [H]

True to form, Wilson doesn't even wait until everyone's in the house before he launches his opening attack.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?"

Greg glances at Sarah as she closes the door behind her with a snap. She looks angry—no, actually that's an understatement. She is furious, her face flushed, her eyes stormy. "It's called softball," Greg says, moving to the couch. It's easy and familiar to take refuge in flippancy. "Part of the whole fourth of July thing. Rustic picnic, ye olde ball game, fireworks-"

"That's not what I mean and you know it!" Wilson rounds on him. "You're supposed to be in treatment and instead I drive all the way here to—to find you pretending to be an _athlete_ for god's sake! Not only that—you've stooped to messing around with the local color! That's completely irresponsible on both yours and Sarah's part!"

"Oh for pete's sake!" Sarah snaps. "You sound like someone's senile great-aunt!" She points at a chair. "Sit."

Wilson obeys her with some reluctance. "You know I'm right," he mutters, not looking at her or Greg.

"I don't know any such thing," she says. "I'm warning you, Jim, you're about two seconds away from having the sheriff escort your ass to the state line unless you have a good reason to be here!"

"The last time I called I got hung up on three times." Wilson sends Greg an accusatory glare. "It's been weeks since Cuddy's heard anything about you working to get your license back and returning to work. She's already had to close down Diagnostics—"

"And how exactly is that Greg's problem?" Sarah takes off her borrowed cap and hurls it into a corner, then pulls the elastic out of her hair and releases a flood of curls. They fan out around her head momentarily like a nimbus of sparks.

"You know, I'm not here to talk to you," Wilson says hotly.

"I'm sure you aren't. Tough," Sarah says. She glances at Greg. "If he asks me to shut up I will, but I'm not leaving."

Greg eases himself onto the couch and puts his feet up on the coffee table. "No skin off my nose if you want to take him on." He gives her a smirk. "It would be pretty amusing to see you hit him the way you did that knuckle ball the macho idiot tried to sneak past you."

"I'm not a baseball," Wilson says, exasperated. "House, your career is hanging by a thread—the longer you delay your return, the harder it'll be for you to get your license back! Besides . . ." He hesitates.

"Oh, I can't wait to hear what comes next," Greg says. In an odd sort of way he's enjoying this farce. It's like old times, but without the apprehension these lectures usually instill.

"If Cuddy doesn't take you back, you'll be out of options," Wilson says finally. Sarah stares at him as if he's lost his mind.

"Are you _serious_?" she asks. "How can you say that with a straight face?"

"Because it's true," Wilson says. "No one's going to want to hire him with his track record, can't you see that?" He turns to face Greg, his expression solemn, with just the right touch of pleading sincerity. "By alienating Cuddy you're setting yourself up for failure again, but this time there won't be anyone there to bail you out."

Sarah opens her mouth but Greg forestalls her. "That's my decision to make," he says. Wilson's eyes widen. Sarah doesn't miss a beat.

"What he said," she says, and comes over to stand behind him.

"You have got to be kidding me," Wilson says after a moment.

"Nope." Greg settles into the couch. "Anyway, this was never about my career, or coming back to work. This is about you needing me because Sam's left you."

There is a moment of silence.

"That's—that's not true," Wilson says at last. "She's still—she hasn't—" He stops.

"Exactly my point," Greg says. "She might not have moved out yet, but it's inevitable, isn't it?"

"This has nothing to do—"

"It has everything to do with you coming here." Greg stares at Wilson until the other man drops his gaze. "She's leaving, you need someone to fill the void and I'm all you've got. Admit it."

"Sounds logical to me," Sarah says. Wilson shoots her a dirty look.

"Whether you want to believe it or not, I'm here to help you get your life back," he says. "You can hide out up here, pretending you're making progress, or you can talk with Cuddy and start working on reinstatement. I'm urging you to take the latter course."

Sarah's hand comes to rest on Greg's shoulder. "Whether you want to believe it or not, Greg is succeeding in treatment. If or when he decides to return to work, he'll have plenty of support and encouragement." She pauses. "You know, I find it very telling that you haven't asked about his health."

Wilson gives her a sharp look that is quickly transferred to Greg. "Is something wrong?"

Greg tilts his head. "You saw me hit one out of the park and you think something's wrong?"

"You . . . you couldn't have had the surgery," Wilson says slowly. "A new drug?" He glances at Greg's leg. "Wait—wait. You're not seriously saying you're using a TENS unit?" He looks aghast. "You'll fry what's left of your quad!"

"Ever the ray of sunshine," Greg says.

"It's a temporary measure—you're only putting off the inevitable!"

"Then that's what I'm doing!" Greg snaps. "And when it doesn't work any longer, I'll have the surgery, and when that doesn't work, I'll get the damn leg cut off if I have to! At least it's me making the decisions now and not the Vicodin!"

Sarah's hand gives him a gentle squeeze while Wilson sits speechless, looking mystified. In that moment Greg wonders how he ever thought they were friends. _He doesn't understand_, he thinks. _He never understood, and probably never will. _All the late-night Indian-takeout sessions, the trouble they've gotten into together, the pranks they've played on each other, even the shared ogling of pretty women . . . it is all negated by this fundamental knowledge: Wilson never thought the pain was significant in any way.

"I can see I've wasted a trip," Wilson is saying. "House . . . whatever game you're playing, it's going to destroy you in the end." He stands, straightens his tie, and glances at Sarah. "You're a fool to encourage him," he says.

"I'd be a fool not to," she says. "When you finally see how wrong you are about all of this you'll feel really stupid, Jim."

Wilson shakes his head. He waits for a moment—_hoping she'll ask him to stay,_ Greg realizes. Sarah says nothing however. When it is apparent she won't offer Wilson lets his shoulders slump a little and goes to the door, lets himself out. They hear the car start up and head down the driveway. After the sound has faded away Sarah says, "You handled him well."

_I just lost someone I thought was my best friend. I'm not sure how I feel about that yet._ "He won't be back."

"Oh, I don't know." Sarah lets go of his shoulder and perches a hip on the back of the couch. "Jim doesn't give up easily. He really does care about you in his own way."

"Whatever." Suddenly he's tired of the whole discussion. "Can we find out how Roz is doing?"

If Sarah is surprised by his abrupt change of topic she doesn't show it. "Sure, hang on." She digs out her cell phone and dials, then hands it to him.

"Hello?" Roz sounds tired. "Sare? What's up, is everything okay? Greg's all right?"

"I'm fine," he says. "So, did they amputate?" He ducks as Sarah gives his head a token whack with a small cushion close at hand.

"Ha ha, you're a total laugh riot. They just cleaned everything and put some kind of gel and a dressing on the scrapes. They're working on my heel."

"How bad's the pain?" His voice sounds more brusque than he meant it to.

"It's okay right now. There's just a couple of pieces of gravel that need to come out." Her words are a tiny bit slurred. _They gave her something. Good, _he thinks_._ "Once that's done I can leave."

"Okay." He hands the phone to Sarah, who finishes up the call with reassurances and humor he cannot offer. When she is done he screws up his courage and says what he knows he has to.

"Before she gets here, we need to talk."

For answer Sarah comes around the couch and sits so she is next to and facing him.

"Fire away," she says, folding her legs Indian-style, propping her elbows on her knees and chin on fists.

"I want to go back to work," he says.

As he suspected, she takes his statement in stride. "All right," she says. "I don't think it would be a good idea for you to stay at your old place while you put in your hours, though—"

"No," he says, cutting her off. "I don't want to go back to New Jersey." He takes a breath. _Here goes. _"I'm leaving Princeton-Plainsboro."


	11. Chapter 11

_July 19th_

_12:15 p.m._

Sarah sat back on her heels and wiped a trickle of sweat from her cheek. _Living room's done_, she thought. _That leaves the hall, the bedroom, the bathroom, and the kitchen. Yippee. Who knew an apartment would be worse to search than a house? _She sighed and got to her feet. _I'll do the hall and then take a break. _She turned to look around the silent room she'd just gone over, admiring once more the piano sitting in the corner, the glossy lid dust-free now-she just couldn't leave it in a state of neglect. It was obviously a prized possession, well used and well kept; she'd dared to try a few scales on the gleaming keys and delighted in the mellow, resonant sound. _Wish I could afford to bring this to the house,_ she thought with quiet wistfulness. _I'd love to hear Greg play it. _It was a shame to put the instrument into storage, but at the moment there was no other recourse. They'd have to come down again to pack everything up anyway; maybe by then they'd figure out a way to get it to New York without breaking the bank.

As she moved to the hallway she wondered if Greg was still at the hospital, or had returned to the motel where they'd taken rooms for the next two days. Her cell phone hadn't rung, but she wasn't going to call him for at least another couple of hours; he didn't need her hanging over him.

She was opening a window in the kitchen to get some air moving through the place when she heard something, a sort of scraping sound, coming from the living room. It was followed by the rattle of the doorknob. Sarah froze. It wouldn't be Greg—she had his set of keys, and anyway he knew he couldn't show up until she gave the all-clear. The door opened and she looked for something to use as a defensive weapon when she heard Jim say "House? Are you here?"

"No, it's me!" she called. A few moments later Jim entered the kitchen, his suit jacket slung over his arm. In shirtsleeves with his hair ruffled by the breeze filtering into the rooms, he looked a little younger, more vulnerable. Sarah remembered him from college days and felt a pang at the recollection.

"What are you doing?" he frowned at her.

"I could ask you the same thing," Sarah said.

"House was supposed to meet me for lunch. When he didn't show I thought maybe he'd decided to make a detour."

Sarah resisted the urge to check her cell phone. "I see."

"And you're here because . . . ?" Jim asked with exaggerated politeness.

"Drug sweep." She gave him a brief smile. His frown deepened.

"I already did that. So did Tritter—a cop," he said at her puzzled look."That was a while back though."

"There are places anyone who isn't an addict wouldn't think to look," she said.

"True." Jim fidgeted with his jacket. "Find anything?"

"Just an empty bottle under the couch," she said, hesitated, then went on. "It has your name as prescribing physician."

"Sarah." It was a warning.

"It's okay," she said quietly. "Come on, sit down. I need a break and we need to talk. All right?"

After a moment he nodded. She went to the cooler on the table and took out a chilled bottle of iced tea, held it up in inquiry. Jim shook his head but he did move to a chair, watching her with wary brown eyes as he sat down. Sarah opened the bottle and took a sip, then claimed a chair for herself and faced him.

"We've been at odds for some time now," she said. "I'm truly sorry that's happened. You're an old and dear friend of mine, and I don't like how we've been treating each other lately." Sarah looked at the bottle in her hands. "What I'd like to say is this: Greg House is my first priority. He is my patient, and he requires everything I can possibly do or give to help him find healing and progress. In his case, that means supporting him when he makes a decision to move away from a job where the atmosphere wasn't and isn't conducive to staying clean. I think it's a wise choice."

"It's idiocy," Jim said harshly. "That's an incredibly naïve statement to make. I didn't support his addiction and neither did anyone else."

"You prescribed for him even after he admitted he was an addict, and no one else said anything to management or even came to you about it," Sarah said. "He needed counseling at the very least, but no one bothered—"

"You weren't there, you don't know! He—he pushed away any attempts at getting him into even the most basic twelve-step program—"

"Well of _course_ he did!" Sarah looked at Jim now in exasperation. "He's an _addict_! He was in no condition to be reasonable or logical! Didn't anyone even consider an intervention?"

Jim gave a harsh laugh. "Forcing him into a program—"

"No!" Sarah smacked the tabletop with her fist. "Interventions are not about force! I'm not saying you had to make him go to rehab or meetings against his will, that wouldn't have accomplished anything. When it's done right an intervention gives the addict a chance to see the truth of their situation, and offers them choices—"

"Well, he'd already _chosen _to stay addicted and had no intention of giving it up, he said as much!" Jim got up and began to pace the kitchen. "You think I wanted to see my best friend downing Vicodin like candy? I tried everything in my power to get him to stop!"

Sarah sighed a little. "Lectures and blamefests go in one ear and out the other with someone who's using, Jim. Besides, he knew you were doing it mainly to massage your own guilty conscience."

"I—I—I wasn't doing anything of the kind!" Jim flung his jacket over the back of his chair. "You're laying his behavior entirely at my door because I wrote 'scrips for him-even for you that's completely reactionary!"

Sarah's hackles rose. "If you're implying I'd whitewash my patient's actions to absolve him of blame and dump everything on you, let me remind you I'm here busting my ass to make sure any stashes he's got hidden don't end up in storage! That hardly suggests I think he's an innocent party!"

Jim said nothing for a moment. Then with a visible effort, he spoke. "I'm . . . sorry, that was uncalled for. Let's—let's back off on this."

"No, let's take it to the end," Sarah said. "We might as well get it all out in the open at last." She took a swallow of tea and set the bottle aside. "So, reason number one to keep House here in Princeton—he's an addict and you and everyone else at work feel a need to enable him, because by doing so you get the toy prize in the crackerjack box—his ability to solve the case when no one else can." She tipped her chair back a bit and folded her arms. "What else?"

Jim glared at her. "That's total bullshit and completely insulting."

"Agree to disagree for now," Sarah said. "Let's keep going."

Jim exhaled, loud and slow. "Fine. He has a bad reputation, one of the worst. He'll never find work anywhere in the Northeast Corridor because no one will be able to put up with him for more than a week at most."

Sarah snorted. "Oh, come on. You're seriously trying to tell me there are _no_ other doctors _anywhere_ on the East Coast or at the major clinics who are notorious for difficult or downright miserable behavior? We both know it's not bedside manner that count, it's results, and Greg gets results galore. There'll be a waiting list a mile long for his services. Even if he doesn't take a job in one place, he could set up a consulting schedule that would have him in a different state or country every couple of days, if he wanted it."

"All Cuddy has to do is send any potential employer a laundry list of legal fees, lawsuits and damages incurred during House's time at PPTH, and no one will touch him with a ten-meter cattle prod." Jim shook his head. "Princeton-Plainsboro is the only place he's got left, that's absolute fact. If he decides to leave, he won't be practicing medicine."

"You're so sure of that, aren't you?" Sarah sat up and set her chair down on all four legs with a thump. "So that's the second rationalization—he's a bad, bad boy and only you and Cuddy know how to deal with him." She gave Jim a considering look. "Both of those reasons are total self-serving malarkey. Why exactly are you two trying so hard to keep him stuck? You act like he's a piece of used chewing gum you can park under a desk and pick up any old time you want."

Jim looked away. "Nice."

"But true," Sarah said. "So, answer the question. Why do you want to blackmail him into staying at a job where he's miserable and puts everyone else through the wringer as well?"

"He'd be miserable no matter where he goes," Jim said. "At least here we can keep an eye on him, maybe save him from his more self-destructive urges when possible. In case you hadn't noticed, we're his friends."

"Ah." Sarah nodded as realization sank in. "I get it."

"Care to enlighten me?" Jim leaned against the counter, arms folded.

"Sure." She sat back. "The gum analogy doesn't go far enough, so let's try this one. Ever seen an organ grinder's monkey? They're not all that common any more, but I'm sure you know what I'm talking about."

"Oh, come on!" Jim's voice rose in outrage. "He's not some performing animal!"

"Could have fooled me," Sarah said. "You kept him on a leash, prescribing him Vicodin and at the same time browbeating him with guilt and shame over his addiction, giving him a little reward when he solved a puzzle, but making sure he'd have to do more, do better the next time or just maybe you'd forget to give him a 'scrip. Or maybe you'd just walk away and leave him stranded, with no one to turn to. As for Cuddy . . ." She shrugged. "Pushup bras and tight skirts tell their own tale, I guess."

"My god." He stared at her as if he'd never seen her before. "You really think I'm capable of that kind of cruelty? That I'd trap another human being in a situation like the one you described, just to get my kicks?"

"Oh, I don't think you set out to trap him," she said. "He was already used to being caged when you found each other. You just exploited his expectations, that's all."

"That's—that's ludicrous," Jim said, but there was no conviction behind the statement.

"What's really telling is the fact that you have _never _believed he was truly in pain," Sarah said. "You've seen his scar; you know his right quadriceps is gone, for all intents and purposes. How the man can stand upright, let alone walk, is beyond me. And yet both you and Cuddy think it's all in his head."

"That is not true," Jim said. "I know some of it is physical, but—Sare, I've seen him take Vicodin when there was no reason to, when he was facing a difficult situation or some emotional problem. You can't tell me that isn't abuse."

"For some people, the difference between physical and emotional or psychological distress is so slight as to be negligible," Sarah said quietly. "When it's big enough, pain is only pain. There are no markers dividing it up into subsections."

"That's just a convenient excuse." The contempt in Jim's tone caught her attention. Sarah studied him for a moment. He avoided her gaze.

"You know, I think you see quite a bit of yourself in Greg House," she said after a brief, awkward silence. "You've always been a total perfectionist. It was why I couldn't marry you. You kept trying to fix what's broken forever inside me, because there's something broken in you too and you can't face it, in yourself or anyone else. I don't know why you're so afraid of your own pain and everyone else's that you have to deny it all. I just wish you could find some healing, Jim."

"Don't turn this on me," Jim said. His voice shook. "I'm not the one with the problem here! I've told you before, don't analyze me, Sarah!"

To her surprise she felt a sting of tears in her eyes. "Force of habit," she said. "I'm sorry." She looked at the floor. "Guess we'll have to part ways on this," she said, sounding far more cheerful than she felt. "You—you'll do what you feel you have to, and so will I."

"I don't want to hurt you." He sounded desperate. "You said I'm an old and dear friend—I feel the same about you. I don't want House to take that away from us."

"He won't." _You already have. _She stood up. "You'd better get yourself some lunch. I know Mondays are busy for you."

Jim stood too, but when she thought he would turn from her he came forward and enfolded her in his arms, an impulsive gesture she guessed he hadn't really planned to make, judging from the diffidence in his touch. "I do love you, you know," he said against her hair. His hold tightened gently. "Always have, always will."

She returned his embrace, her memories of him like a surgeon's scalpel, the sharpened steel dissecting her heart with deep, cold strokes. "I know. I love you too. Always have, always will," she whispered, repeating their old mantra. "I hope you forgive me for what I have to do, because I forgive you."

When he'd let himself out she set to work in the hall, ignoring the salt drops that fell now and then on the smooth hardwood floor beneath her.

[H] [H] [H]

_11:30 a.m._

Lisa pushed back from the last of her paperwork with a sigh and sipped her coffee, frowning when it turned out to be cold and bitter. She considered getting a fresh cup, then decided against it. Too much caffeine after ten kept her awake at night, and with Rachel up early these days she needed as much sleep as she could get.

"Doctor Cuddy?" Her assistant stood in the doorway, a strange expression on her face. "Doctor House is here to see you."

_So Wilson was right, he is in town. _She moved up to her desk, ignoring the apprehension and anticipation welling up inside her like a fountain. "Send him in."

She watched as he approached the doors and opened them, entering in near silence. _My god,_ she thought. _He's got a tan._ In fact he looked healthier than she'd seen in him years—thinner, and with more grey in what was left of his hair, if that was even possible-but the deep lines of pain in his face, the bloodshot eyes, the almost-involuntary nervous movements, all were gone. He came toward her, his limp far less pronounced, his bright blue gaze raking over her, clear and steady.

"So you're still shopping exclusively at Victoria's Secret." He plopped into the chair directly across from her. "You've never gotten over your jones for the Slutty CEOs clearance rack."

Lisa savored the sound of his silk-and-gravel voice even as she gave him a resigned look. "Hello to you too," she said. "Long time no see, but some things never change."

"Exactly my point." House offered a smirk. To her astonishment, the humor reached his eyes. "I presume Wilson filled you in on particulars?"

"He said he came up to visit you last week and you were, quote, acting like an idiot, unquote." Lisa favored him with an inquiring glance. "Not that I'm surprised, but would you care to explain?"

"No," House said. Lisa waited, but he remained silent.

"I see. Exactly why are you here then? It's obviously not to catch up with each other after your shrink's edict banning me from calling you." _We haven't talked in months. Even if we did fight, he could have gotten in touch somehow. Being on the outs with me has never stopped him before._ "I'm thinking this visit might be about employment opportunities in the Diagnostics department."

"About that." He paused. "I quit."

She looked down her nose at him, her opening negotiation fakeout move. "Well, unofficially you did, yes."

"Then we should make it official," he said. His gaze didn't waver from hers. "Seriously. I quit."

"Come on, cut the crap. You know you have no bargaining power, and I don't have time for games," she said, impatient with his refusal to play along. "We can work out a schedule for you to put in your hours for reinstatement—"

"No," he said. Lisa frowned at him.

"You can't get your license back without doing supervised mandatory rounds," she said.

"I'm aware of that." He folded his hands on top of his cane and watched her.

"I'm not going to re-hire you if I can't supervise your hours myself," she said.

"There's no reason for you to do so, because I. Quit." He emphasized the last two words. Lisa stared at him, bewilderment slowly giving way to comprehension. _My god, he's not jerking my chain—he means it._

"House . . . you can't work anywhere else. No one will take you on. Your reputation . . . " She trailed off, the enormity of what he was saying giving rise to consternation.

"Possibly." He shrugged. "Even if that's true, it doesn't matter."

Lisa knew a moment of pure panic. "But you'd be throwing _everything_ away! Years of med school, your work—your ability—Greg, you . . . you _can't_!"

"Sure I can." He gave her a questioning look. "Isn't there some paperwork I need to sign?"

"No," she said, determined to stop him.

"Okay." He stood. "Good seeing you."

"No! I meant—you can't do this." Lisa rose to her feet as well. "Come to lunch with me," she said on impulse. "We need to talk."

"Free lunch? Count me in," he said. "They still have those little Swedish meatballs in the cafeteria? They're great for playing table soccer."

She ended up taking him to the restaurant where she and Wilson got together on Tuesdays.

"Wow," House said, glancing around the quiet interior with wide eyes. "Linen napkins and two forks." He picked up the menu. Lisa refrained from telling him it was upside down, since he was well aware of the fact, presumably. "Let's live dangerously and get a double order of mozzarella sticks with one marinara. What's a little spit between friends?" He gave her an exaggerated wink.

Lisa plucked the menu out of his hands and spared him a withering glance. "Two Caesar salads," she told the hovering waiter. "Two Pellegrinos."

"And a cheesesteak dry with fried onions!" House called after him as he headed to the kitchen. "Can't get a decent one in New York," he said to Lisa. She sighed.

"Let's cut to the chase," she said. "What do you want?"

"Didn't you hear me? A cheesesteak. Dry, fried onions," House said. "I wouldn't object to a side of chips." He gave her a mock frown. "Your aural acuity was pretty accurate a year ago. Maybe you've got waxy yellow buildup."

"I'm not a kitchen floor," she snapped, but couldn't help a smile. _God, I've missed this. Missed __him__._

"Not with all those bumpy protrusions, you aren't." House sat back. "So, how's the yard ape? I'm presuming the ball and chain is lurking somewhere behind a potted palm, recording the particulars for future blackmail opportunities."

Her smile faded. "Rachel's fine."

"Aaaaaand . . .?" He tilted his head in a gesture so familiar her heart gave a funny little skip.

"Lucas is gone," she said. "We split up two weeks ago." She gave her now-ringless hand an involuntary glance. _Good riddance._

"I'm sorry." His voice was quiet. When she looked up at him the mockery had left his gaze. It was so unexpected she blinked at him.

"Yes. Well . . ." Lisa put her napkin in her lap. "It's academic. And not why we're here. You can't expect me to believe you don't want to come back."

"I have no expectations." The waiter reappeared with their salads and mineral water. "Well, that's not altogether true. I expect this is going to be one disgustingly healthy lunch."

"Consider it my gift to your arteries." She accepted her Pellegrino. "Wilson says you're using a TENS unit now. How's it working out?"

House was picking through the romaine with a disgusted look. "There are fishies in here," he said loudly. "Did they have their tails on when they got mashed up in the dressing?" He shuddered. Cuddy stifled a chuckle.

"Cut it out," she said. "You've always liked Caesar salad."

He popped a crouton, crunched it hard and loud. "Sure, when it comes with a thirty-two ounce three-inch-thick medium rare porterhouse steak and a pound of home fries." He picked up his mineral water, took a substantial swallow, then set it down and rapped his fork against the glass. "Hey!" he yelled. Conversations around the room fell silent. "Someone should tell the kitchen the syrup ran out on the Coke dispenser!"

"Will you stop?" she hissed, trying hard not to laugh. "Come on, answer my question. How's the TENS working?"

"Damn cheap diners," he grumbled. His eyes gleamed with sly humor. "That's what they get for hiring under the table." He forked up some lettuce. "The unit works fine."

"Well, how do you _feel_?" she urged. "You look—" She stopped. House raised his brows. He swallowed the bite of salad.

"Yes?" he said. "Do go on. Flattery is a useful tool. It always gives me an idea of what's expected in return."

"You seem . . . better," she said, and picked up her fork. "The day you went to Mayfield . . . I'm sorry I couldn't go with you."

"Doesn't matter now," he said. "How was the wedding?"

"Beautiful," she said, and smiled a little, with the sadness she always felt when thinking of Chase and Cameron. "House . . . why don't you want to come back?"

She hadn't meant to say it, but now it was out. He didn't answer her right away.

"It isn't a question of not wanting to come back," he said after a time, "as much as it is whether it's a good idea." He played with his fork, drawing lines on the linen tablecloth with the tines. "The answer is an unequivocal no."

Lisa felt the last word hit her like a sucker punch. She drew in an unsteady breath. "You . . . you believe working at Princeton-Plainsboro is bad for you?"

"Yes." He said it without mockery or sarcasm. Lisa almost wished he'd used either mode, rather than simple honesty. It stabbed at her, the pain turning to anger.

"How dare you," she whispered. This was far worse than that damnable visit to his hospital room so many months ago. "After everything I've done—after—after all the lies, the goddamn Vicodin and people almost going to jail for you, risking their careers—how can you can say that and mean it?"

"It's the truth," he said. She glared at him.

"I perjured myself for you! I let you destroy half a wing of my hospital, not to mention my own office!" Her voice rose in volume. "You broke two MRIs, you lost me one hundred million dollars in donation money and a damn good attorney—and that doesn't even take into account the perks I gave you, like the best office on the floor, a flat screen tv and the Eames chair, which by the way seems to have disappeared into thin air! And you're telling me you can't come back because the work environment is _bad_ for you? Who the hell do you think you are?"

The tables around them had fallen silent once more, but she didn't care. _Let management kick us out,_ she thought. _I never really liked coming here anyway. _

"Lisa." The rare use of her first name made her look at House. He watched her, his gaze calm, unwavering, and filled with a resigned sorrow that scattered her outrage like leaves before a cool, gentle wind. "This isn't a value judgment against PPTH, or you. It's time for me to move on." He gave her a faint smirk, though his gaze remained serious. "Let Foreman have the department, if you want to keep it going. Just don't tell him I said so."

She sat there, incapable of doing anything except staring at him. "You—you're really leaving?"

"Yes," he said. "If you were as smart as you used to be before the curtain climber drained your brain, you'd be celebrating." He looked past her, his eyes widening. "Uh oh," he muttered. "Cheese it, it's the cops."

"Ma'am." The maitre'd stood at her side, looking stern. "We've had several complaints from your fellow diners . . ."

"Oh, screw them," Lisa said, and tossed her napkin on the table. "Check, please."

He signed the papers in her office. Lisa watched his strong, elegant hand move across the documents, looked at his downbent head with the thin spot on the crown, and wondered how she could possibly manage without him. _All those years of dealing with his maniac ways, and now I wish . . . well no, I don't want those crazy times back, but I will miss him terribly. _She closed her eyes on tears.

"Done." House's voice was a little too loud; he'd obviously seen her trying to hold it together. Lisa nodded and kept her focus on the papers as she gathered them up. "Thanks for lunch."

"It's the least I can do," she said.

"A golden parachute wouldn't hurt," he said, and she smiled a little. _Already taken care of,_ she thought. _I'll justify it with the board somehow._

"No doubt," she said aloud. When she looked up he was watching her with a reluctant comprehension so familiar she had to glance away. "What—what will you do now?" she said after a brief silence.

"Not sure," he said. He stood, putting his pen in his jacket pocket. Lisa came around the desk slowly.

"I'll see you again, won't I?" she asked, afraid to hear the answer.

"Never say never," he said. And then his arms brought her close. She lifted her face for his kiss, her hands sliding over his back. There were restored muscles there, long and lean, and she remembered him in his prime, arrogant and obnoxious but with that well-hidden core of vulnerability under the cocky brilliance.

"Please be happy," she whispered when the kiss ended. He smiled a little and she fought the urge to let her tears fall. Instead she looked at him, taking in every detail—the fine lines at the corners of those blue, blue eyes, the soft shadow under his bottom lip, the dimple in his cheek. Her hands came up to frame his face, her touch gentle. He clasped them, brought them down, his lips brushing hers once more, a soft lingering caress.

"Goodbye, Cuddy," he said. And then he was walking out of her office, his tall frame straight and relaxed as he left as quietly as he'd arrived.

'_The Heart of the Matter', Don Henley_


	12. Chapter 12

_**(A/N: this chapter is dedicated to my mother, who loved classical music of all types, but in particular Chopin, and Artur Rubenstein's interpretation of his works. I have given Greg my childhood memories of listening to some of the most beautiful music ever written. The nocturne featured is my favorite.**_

_**The piano concerto Sarah is listening to has a symbolic meaning within the context of the chapter and the entire fic in general. Rachmaninoff was suffering from clinical depression and writer's block when he began work on this opus. With the help of his physician he was able to heal and regain his ability to compose and play. The progression from pain and sadness to joy is apparent in all three movements.**_

_**There is a real restaurant called Ganges in Princeton Junction, though it is far more sedate than the hot spot in my story would have you believe. No Bollywood song mixes or jumping dance floor-but that's what dramatic license is for! **_

_**If you'd like to listen to the specific music references and recordings listed at the end of the chapter, they're all available at YouTube. Darrel's mixes are excellent. I love dancing around doing housework to his stuff. :)**_

_**Thanks for reading my work, and if you are so inclined, please leave a review on your way out, it would make my day. -B)**_

_July 20th_

_4:30 p.m._

When his phone rings he knows who it is, and what she'll say.

"I'm done." Sarah sounds tired. Greg lets out a held breath.

"Find anything?" _Wonder if she looked behind the mirror._

"Not much," Sarah says. "Did you keep the rooms for another night?"

"Yup. We're good till checkout tomorrow morning."

"Okay. Wanna come pick me up?"

On the way over to the apartment he feels strange, almost as if he's gone back in time and is coming home from work . . . except he's not miserable from constant pain, there's no bottle of Vicodin in his pocket and he's not obsessed with some impossible case. It's an unsettling sensation, not being weighed down with other people's expectations. The weather has changed from hot, muggy and dry to cool, muggy and wet; he drives through the rain, navigating by automatic pilot as he considers what's ahead.

_This weekend we'll pack up the place and put things in storage, and then . . . I won't live here anymore. _He looks around the intersection at the light, sees familiar sights: those funky little hole in the wall places you often find in university towns, along with the usual sprinkling of convenience stores, gas stations, banks and strip malls, and realizes none of it has ever felt like home. Princeton is just another place he lived in for a while, another set of memories to store away with his stuff.

It is with a curious juxtaposition of lightness of heart and melancholy that he eventually pulls up in front of 221 Baker and parks the minivan. As rain patters on the windshield he stares at the front entrance of his apartment building, remembering the day he moved in. He'd just left Stacy and taken on a new job, still struggling to cope with the double blow of losing a fragile, trusted love, as well as his ability to so much as walk unaided. He remembers his humiliation at being forced to choose a place on the first floor . . . and now it all seems as remote as his college days, something he went through long ago. The pain is still there, but it's not sharp-edged any more.

Slowly he leaves the van and goes to the entrance. The door sticks a little, the way it always does when it rains. He moves down the hallway to apartment B. Sarah answers promptly when he knocks. Without speaking she steps aside to let him in.

Everything looks the same as always—a bit dustier of course, but then he'd never obsessed too much over keeping things neat and tidy. He moves toward the piano, squinting at the keyboard. He sees the bench has been lowered, as if to accommodate someone with shorter legs. He gives Sarah an accusing stare.

"You played it?"

"Yes."

He resets the bench, sits down and just touches the keys, closing his eyes at the sensation of ivory under his fingertips. "People have been flayed alive for less."

"One Kreutzer etude, that's it. Don't worry, I offered up some porn and a bottle of bourbon afterwards." Sarah sits on the arm of the couch. "Would you play something for me?"

He glances at her. She is looking at her hands. Without replying he begins a nocturne; one of his favorites, opus nine, number two. He does not turn to Chopin often at all, but the choice seems appropriate somehow. The music fills the empty room, mingling with the sound of the rain falling outside, and he recalls moments from the many times he's done this over the years, playing through endless hours of pain and loneliness, pushing away the darkness until exhaustion sent him to his empty bed.

But as he moves through the work, he remembers when years ago he would listen to his mother's recordings of the nocturnes, and other classics besides; only when his father was away, of course. The music winds through memories of afternoons spent at the dining room table doing homework or reading, his only companion during those quiet hours.

Over time he's read reviews of the recordings, complaining that Rubenstein's interpretation is mechanical and dry, unadventurous, an old man's too-careful style. To him however they are a distilled essence; a perfect and all-too-rare collaboration between composer and musician, polished note by note with care and attention, deceptively simple, filled with a quiet brilliance that still echoes when he plays, pairedwith the memory of a lonely child listening to each note and hearing more than the music itself.

The passages fall under his fingers, sad, sweet, the elegant voice of his old friend offering a comfort he still welcomes. When the work is finished he sits in silence. Eventually he looks at Sarah. She is wiping her cheek with the back of her hand, a quick, embarrassed gesture. When she speaks at last her voice is almost inaudible. "Thank you."

He gives the keys a last loving caress, and rises to his feet. "Come on," he says. "Let's get out of here."

They are in the motel parking lot when Greg's phone goes off. The ringtone is one he hasn't heard in months. He pulls into a spot and checks the ID—sure enough, it's someone on his team. _Ex-team_, he reminds himself.

"Uh—if you're asking me to get you out of trouble with a case," he says when he answers, "no can do. Not only am I not licensed, yez don't work wit' me no more."

"So I've heard," Chase says with more cheer than Greg thinks is necessary, given the circumstances. "We want to take you out to dinner."

"'We'?" Greg glances at Sarah as she opens her door and steps out. She walks to her room, her head bent beneath the soft rain. "Who is this 'we' you speak of?"

"Me, Foreman, Thirteen and Taub. Our treat."

He smiles a little. "Hail, hail, the gang's all here," he says softly. "Almost." He thinks of Cameron and then Kutner and knows a moment of pain, familiar and haunting. "So, what are we talking? McDonald's or Le Bec-Fin?"

"We all voted for Ganges," Chase says. "What do you think?"

The choice surprises him. He'd expected an hour or two in a crowded, noisy bar, a couple of beers and a crappy overpriced burger, not a halfway decent Indian restaurant. "Sounds good. Doctor Goldman is with me."

"She's more than welcome to come along," Chase says without hesitation.

_He even manages to sound sincere. Impressive. _"I'll pass that on to her. What time?"

"Sevenish. I'll call in the reservation and we'll see you there."

A bit later Greg knocks on Sarah's door. When she answers she's in a tee shirt, flannel bottoms and bathrobe, her hair damp and slicked back, though a few curls have already started to spring loose.

"We've been invited to dinner," he says.

"It's nice of them to include me, but this is a night for you and your team." Sarah looks dispirited, and the sadness he noticed earlier is stronger now, her sea-green eyes dark and pensive.

"What's wrong?" he asks. She doesn't answer right away.

"Jim stopped by yesterday," she says at last. "He was looking for you. We . . . talked."

"Which really means you argued," Greg says slowly. She nods.

"Yes."

"How bad was it?" he asks. She moves her hand, a gesture of helplessness she tries to hide by pressing her palm against her leg. Greg sees it and frowns. It's not like her to cover up her feelings.

"He made his decision, I made mine. What's done is done." Sarah shakes her head and a few more curls escape. "You should get ready to go."

"I'm not leaving you here like this," he says harshly.

"It's all right," she says. "I'm a little down, but it'll pass." She offers him a slight smile. "Can't forgo a free dinner. Besides, it's the last chance you'll get to talk with them as your fellows. After this they'll be colleagues, to some extent at least."

"Perish the thought," he says, struck by the idea nonetheless.

He cannot convince her to go, so he returns to his own room. Once there he hits the speed dial on his phone. When he reaches voicemail he says "Call your wife, she needs a shoulder to cry on," hangs up and begins the process of making himself ready for the evening ahead.

_7:21 p.m._

"Where's the man of the hour?" Taub raised his voice above the Bollywood songs pumping from the speakers. He glanced at his watch.

"You know he's never on time," Thirteen said. Chase chuckled.

"He's about to prove you wrong," he said. On the heels of his words House came in, moving toward them, only to be intercepted by an older woman in a cerise and orange sari. Foreman's eyes widened.

"Holy shit," he said. "He has a _tan._"

"And muscles," Thirteen added, smiling. "He must be working out. Looks good on him."

"Told you he was doing okay," Chase said. "Come on, we'd better rescue him before he starts swearing at the hostess in Hindi and gets us kicked out."

Soon enough they were settled at a table in the busy dining room. Their server came to take the drinks order and promised a quick return for appetizers and main course.

"So." House tossed his menu aside. "I'm betting Cuddy got you all together to tell you I'm quits and she's considering putting the department together again, so you're here out of a mix of guilt and hope that I'll give my blessing to one of you, and you can take it to Cuddy. Sort of like getting a golden ticket in your Wonka bar, only without that gangster guy in South America cheating."

Chase looked at Foreman, who shrugged. "Yeah, that's true," Foreman said. "But we do want to give you a great sendoff."

"Uh huh." House said, his cynicism plain. "You think I won't come back if you can make me remember how irritating you all are when you're together."

"Damn, you figured it out. We're so screwed," Thirteen said. "Who wants the veggie pakoras and cut mirchis to start?"

The service was efficient and prompt. In short order an enormous platter of appetizers and a pot of masala chai kept everyone occupied for some time.

"Any plans for the near future?" Taub asked around a bite of kheema samosa.

"Staying the hell away from Princeton," House said, and smirked at the laugh his comment caused.

"You must have some idea what you want to do," Thirteen said. She sipped her chai.

"The usual. Hang out with all the nubile young women at my mansion, watch porn and drink single malt." House polished off a mirchi and reached for another. "Mom always said my vast ambition would be the death of me."

"Any chance you'll get your license reinstated?" Foreman asked. House raised his brows.

"Bro, would I do that to you?"

"The medical world would be losing a great mind if you weren't around," Chase said.

"Way to brownnose," Taub said dryly. House snorted.

"Some things never change."

"Hey, it's not kissing ass to tell the truth," Chase said in some indignation. He paused, distracted by a shapely young woman in an electric blue sari with silver trim. "_Whoa_."

"Scoping out the local talent," House said. "I'm impressed. The ink on your divorce papers isn't even dry yet."

"No time like the present," Chase said. "Do you have a place lined up where you can do your hours?" He took a swallow of chai and popped a bite of veggie pakora.

"Yeah, thought Fiji would be a great choice," House said. He downed the last of his chai and switched his glass with Foreman's untouched one. "Don't tell me all of you are staying in this hellhole voluntarily now that you won't have my sterling example to guide you."

Taub gave Foreman a furtive glance. "I'm . . . not sure yet."

"You mean you don't know if Foreman will keep you on." House said. Taub shrugged.

"Don't know if I want to stay. I took the job to work with you."

"Then you're a moron," House said, and frowned when Foreman and Chase exchanged a meaningful look. "What?"

"Hand it over," Chase was saying.

"No way, man. We agreed, fifteen minutes. It's been twenty-two. I checked." Foreman sat back. "Pay up."

"Yeah, fine. Dammit." Chase glanced at House as he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and handed several twenties to Foreman. "The use of 'moron' or 'idiot' within fifteen minutes of sitting down together. You were saying?"

House rolled his eyes. "And you didn't cut me in on the action? How little you've learned. I could have doubled that payout. Anyway, you're either in it for the work or you're grabbing brownie points for your CV. Personally I always go for what looks good. Just thought you should know. If you want to walk on water, I'll tell you where the stepping stones are hidden. For a price, of course."

"Well, I'm staying," Chase said. He picked up a paneer pakora. "No place I'd rather be."

"Me too," Thirteen said. "For now, anyway."

"You crazy kids," House said. He gave Thirteen a considering stare. "What about your little fling with Doogie? Anything come out of that?"

"Going strong," Thirteen said. She looked at House, her smile widening just a bit. "How about you? Anyone in your life?"

"An electrician." He affected confusion as laughter greeted his reply. "What? A blue-collar girl can't fall for an unemployed gimp physician?"

"I can see it now," Chase said, chuckling. "You, me and a wiring diagram makes three."

"House in love," Thirteen said. Her eyes gleamed with humor. "I'd say that calls for a round of mango milkshakes."

When the server brought the drinks to their table and passed them out, Chase gestured to Foreman. "You're titular head, presumably. Go for it."

"Emphasis on tit," House threw in.

"Thanks," Foreman said dryly. "I get stuck praising the guy I always considered a jerk." He regarded House with mock thoughtfulness for a moment. "To the best teacher and diagnostician PPTH has ever had or will have. We'll never see your like again, because we hope they broke the mold when they made you." He lifted his milkshake. Everyone followed suit. "Doctor Gregory House," he said.

"Doctor Gregory House!" The chorus was loud enough to be heard above the pounding music. A few heads turned, and laughter scattered through the crowd.

"Long may he wave," House said, ignoring the attention they were attracting, and drank with the rest. When they had finished he said "Now for the really important stuff on the agenda. Goat chops, tandoori chicken or murgh biryani? And who's gonna dance with Thirteen later so I can watch her shake her booty?"

_July 21st_

_12:21 a.m._

It is a little after midnight by the time Greg lets himself in. He pauses, then picks up the key card for Sarah's room, goes across the hallway and knocks softly on her door. When her quiet voice invites him to come in, he enters and finds her sitting in bed propped with pillows and a copy of _Current Directions in Psychological Science_ in one hand, jotting something down in a small notebook with the other. A pair of reading glasses perch on the end of her nose and an mp3 player is draped around her neck. He can just hear the music playing softly. She looks better; the sadness is much reduced, and there's some color in her cheeks. When he comes in she takes the buds out of her ears and gives him a slight smile in greeting. Greg sits on the side of the bed, facing her.

"Rachmaninoff," he says. "Piano concerto number two, first movement, first major motif." He tilts his head, listening. "The original RCA Victor recording with the composer playing. Interesting choice."

"It's an old favorite. Your nocturne brought it to mind." Sarah sets the journal aside and pushes the glasses to the top of her head. "How was your evening?"

"About what you'd expect. Some attempts to set the record straight, a lot of maudlin reminiscing, and way too much talk about Cuddy's breasts." He sighs. "Those mango milkshakes went straight to everyone's head."

Sarah gives him a wry look. "Somehow I doubt you objected to any of that."

"Of course not. When will I ever get the chance again to discuss my ex-boss's boobs in detail with people who see them every day?" He watches her write. "Getting ready to publish my memoirs at long last?"

"Found an article with some good references," she says. "Thanks for asking Gene to call me."

"De nada," he says. "It was enlightened self-interest. I don't feel like driving back to the house with you moping the entire way."

She smiles at him, a real smile that reaches her eyes this time, and he feels some part of him relax deep within. "Don't blame you. Do you need something to help you sleep? Are you in any pain?"

"Nope and nope. I'm good." Much to his surprise, he really is, it's not just lip service. "Want some company?"

Sarah gives him an inquiring look. "Of course, but it's kinda late."

"The evening's barely started." He shrugs off his jacket and stands. "Brought home a goody bag for my analyst. I hope you like cold pakoras." When Sarah's hand touches his for a moment he hesitates.

"Thanks," she says again. He gives her an abrupt nod, then moves off to get the leftovers, feeling oddly more at home here in this anonymous little cube of a room than he ever did in his apartment.

'_Nocturne no. 2, opus 9,' Frydyryk Chopin_

'_2008 Bollywood Remix,' Darrel Mascarenhas_

'_Piano concerto number no. 2, opus 18, first movement (moderato),' Sergei Rachmaninoff_


	13. Chapter 13

**_(A/N: fluff alert. You have been warned. -B)_**

_July 21st_

_4 a.m._

_(Once more she finds herself standing at the gate to a back yard—the same place she's visited before. When she enters this time however, she finds a major change. No longer a barren landscape, there is a large tree shading one corner, and thick hedges stand in place of the peeling board fence. Grass grows in abundance over the entire area, a well-nourished and vivid green. She looks around, pleased at what she sees. _

_From a far corner of the yard a figure emerges. Sarah feels her breath catch. "Hello Greg," she says softly._

_This is not the skinny, beaten little boy she remembers from her last visit, however. Now he is somewhere around seventeen, tall, lanky, wide-shouldered, a thick mass of unruly chestnut waves framing a bony, intelligent face with sharp blue eyes. He crosses the yard, his long legs eating up the distance in a loose, gangly stride, a slight smile on his lips. When he holds out his hands she takes them, surprised by the gesture. He begins to spin the both of them around, his grip firm. To her astonishment she hears music playing. It sounds like something from a Bollywood soundtrack. _What on earth?_ she thinks. "How . . .?" she says aloud, confused but pleased. His smile widens to a grin. He moves a little faster, in time to the strong, driving beat. The music grows in volume. Sarah cannot refuse his tacit invitation to dance, nor does she wish to. They move together, following the beat. Greg laughs, his happiness expanding until it fills the entire yard._

"_FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" he shouts, and pulls her in close, picks her up, his hands on her waist to lift her as they whirl. The two of them giggle like a pair of fools, still revolving together until they reach the shade of the tree. Slowly they come to a stop and end up on the ground, sitting side by side, breathless and giddy. _

"_Free__," he says, and turns to her. The bold eagerness in his expression breaks her heart. "Do you know what that means?__"_

"_Yes," she says, smiling. "Oh, yes."_

"_I can go anywhere! I can do anything!" He jumps to his feet and does a quick spin, arms wide. "No one can push me around now!" _

_Sarah watches him, enjoying his elation. He sits down again, folding those long legs carelessly beneath him, and takes her hands in his once more. _

"_I still need you to help me," he says. His brilliant gaze searches her face. "Will you?" _

"_Of course," she says without hesitation."Anything I can give or do, it's yours-anything." _

_His hold tightens gently. "Thanks, Mom," he says. Sarah's heart gives a hard thump._

"_What?" She's afraid she hasn't heard him right._

"_You're my real mother," he says. His eyes shine with what she realizes is genuine affection. "So that means I can tell you . . . I have a girlfriend."_

_Sarah blinks, still trying to take in the enormity of what he's just admitted to her. "No kidding?" She knew he and Roz had progressed beyond a casual kiss or two, but not this far._

"_Yeah." He gives her a cheeky smirk. "Can't wait to do her."_

"_Greg__!" Sarah starts to laugh, torn between amusement and concern._

"_Knew that would get you going." He springs to his feet. "Dance with me!"_

_She allows herself to be helped up. The singer's voice is clear and sweet, the beat irresistible. She moves to it and watches the young man across from her, flailing his long limbs about in abandon, his head bopping along, glossy brown waves flying. _Lord, he's got big feet_, she thinks in a rush of maternal tenderness._ He's absolutely adorable. How could Blythe not see that?

"_I know I look stupid and I don't care!" he yells. Sarah shakes her head._

"_You're fabulous!" she shouts. He raises both arms in a victory salute and swings them side to side, shaking his fists._

"_D'you hear that! I'm FAB-U-LOUS! FAB-U-LOUS!" _

_Sarah laughs, filled to bursting with delight. _It's worth it, all worth it to see him free, _she thinks. He throws his head back in exultation. And then the yard is empty, with the faint echo of a last beat fading into silence . . . but the joy remains.)_

_10 a.m._

They have stopped by 221-B to pick up a few things Greg wants to take back. He shoves a bag full of extra jeans into the van and gives Sarah another long stare. She is humming under her breath; she looks rejuvenated. It is a complete turnaround from the previous day's depression; even accounting for her husband's call, she is far more cheerful than he'd expected. As he watches her she puts a box of journals on the floor, taking her time.

"You wanna get a move on?" he grouses, just to see what she'll do. "I'd like to be home before Christmas."

She turns her head and smiles at him. The powerful affection in her gaze takes him by surprise. "I'm workin' on it, son. Anything else you want to load up?"

He studies her. "Are you stoned or something?"

Sarah's smile widens. "Just high on life."

He nods. "Uh huh. You didn't get enough sleep. That means I'm driving."

Her green eyes spark with silent laughter. "You know, you're a lot more optimistic when you're seventeen."

"Huh?" He stares at her. She only turns and walks away, still dancing to that tune in her head, hips swaying.

They are half an hour out of Princeton when he says "You had another one of those stupid dreams, didn't you?"

Sarah sips her tea before answering. "They're not stupid."

He passes a truck on the right. "Oh, come on. They're a crock and you know it."

"Says you." She is secretly amused, he can tell; it isn't directed at him, though. She's not making fun of him. _She wouldn't,_ he thinks. _Teasing, yes. Mockery, no. _

"So what happened?" He doesn't look at her.

"Intuitive insight," she says, and laughs when he groans. "Stop fishing. I'll tell you some things but not all of it, not right now anyway."

"Only when I'm ready," he says.

"Yup."

"Coward," he accuses. "You're afraid I'll make fun of your subconscious and the completely ridiculous conclusions it makes."

"Nope." She smiles. "I'm the analyst. I get to decide these things. All you need to know is that I'm very pleased with your progress."

He can't help but feel a little satisfaction at her statement despite his derision. "Seventeen, huh? Pervert."

She chuckles softly. "Oh, I don't think so. Your girlfriend would have something to say about me crowding her out."

"Who told you I have a girl?"

"You did."

That shuts him up, mainly because there's nothing he can say to refute the assertion. They travel in silence for a while. Then he can't resist asking, "What happened with Wilson?"

She sobers a little. "Difference of opinion."

"About . . .?" He trails off.

"You." Sarah says it simply, but there is a wealth of meaning in the word.

"I came between the two of you? So to speak," he adds. She shakes her head.

"Jim doesn't like the fact that you're healing," she says. "He didn't say it in so many words, but his opinion was pretty clear."

"It makes sense," Greg says. "He tends to bail when there's nothing left to fix."

"That's his problem, not yours, mine or anyone else's. You're not responsible for his lack of faith in your treatment." Sarah takes another sip of tea and stretches. "If I fall asleep, don't take it personally. Dancing always wears me out."

"We—we _danced_?" He gives a derisive snort. "I can hardly walk across a room without falling over."

"Seventeen, remember? You were sweet," she says to his horror. "All legs, and that mop of wavy brown hair . . ."

"I was not _sweet_ at that age," he growls. "'Uncivilized' would be a better description."

"So what was life like for you at seventeen?" she asks. He considers her question.

"Best of times, worst of times," he says finally, and passes a microbus with 'Nader '08' and 'Coexist' stickers on the back windows. "Senior year, headed for med school . . . anything that was going to get me out of the house was good news. Dad and I were fighting most of the time by then." He slows down for the toll booth. "Since we're doing secret confessional, what about you?"

"Well . . . that was actually a decent year in a lot of ways," Sarah says. "I'd just come out of rehab for the third time. Had a good doctor, someone who could listen past the teenage angst and drama and hear what I was really saying. She worked with me all summer to get caught up on my studies and encouraged me to consider going to college. I'd never even thought about it." She pauses. "My grandmother told me if I wanted to continue my education I'd have to do it on my own dime, so I took a job on a farm, helping out. The pay was terrible but it was a start. And I got to be around horses, so it was all good." She tips her head back. "Spent a lot of time in the haymow reading after work," she says. There is a quiet pleasure in her voice that tells its own story. "Were you ever able to do that? Escape, I mean."

"Sometimes. It was harder when Dad was home. His schedule, what he wanted . . . he always had priority no matter what. He took it for granted." Greg waits for the blast of bitterness that accompanies this memory, and is a little surprised to find it's not as acrimonious as usual. "For me it was music, partly because I knew Dad hated the fact that I played piano."

"Partly?" Sarah says when he falls silent. He waits until after he's handed over the toll and moved into the stream of vehicles headed into Pennsylvania and onto the Extension before answering.

"I've always loved music," he says with some reluctance. He hasn't ever said that out loud to anyone; he figures it's an obvious conclusion to draw for people who've been around him a while, but it still feels like he's revealing something important, something that should be hidden away, protected.

"How old were you when you started playing?" Sarah asks softly.

"Two, maybe a little older." He can just barely recall sitting in Oma's lap, her gnarled hand placing his right index finger on middle C. She smells like the peppermint candies they've both just eaten and a fainter fragrance of something sweetly floral, with a little hint of lavender. "My grandmother gave me lessons on and off until I was five. After that Mom would do her best to find a teacher on base to continue, but there wasn't always someone around willing or able to put up with me. I finally dug up some old sheet music and etude workbooks at a garage sale and studied those." He moves into the fast lane to overtake a school bus full of day campers headed off on a field trip, no doubt. "You?"

"Grandma gave me piano lessons when I moved in with her. She believed in music as a morally uplifting pursuit." Sarah takes a last swallow of tea and puts the container in the cupholder. "She was a total taskmaster. Once she got me past the last Schirmer book she made me learn hymns. I must know every Baptist camp song ever written."

"'What a friend we have in Jesus . . .'" he sings, and Sarah rolls her eyes.

"Don't start! It was horrible. At least she liked the old music as well—Irish," she says when he gives her a brief inquiring look. "How she reconciled the two is beyond me. Anyway, after I left her house I bought a guitar and found a few pickup bands here and there, but as you might have guessed by my total lack of technique, I'm self-taught."

"You do all right," he says, and means it.

"Thanks," she says.

They fall into a comfortable silence. After a time he checks and finds she is asleep. There are shadows under her eyes, but also a calmness in her expression that bothers him. _She shouldn't be calm,_ he thinks. _She shouldn't be happy. She's just lost a good friend, and whatever she says, it's my fault. _

When she wakes up an hour or so later he says "Why?"

"Mmmm . . . why what?" She stretches a little.

"Why are you still working with me?" He grips the steering wheel. "I mess up people's lives. Got you fired, forced your hand into taking me in, lost you an old friend . . ."

"I don't expect you to be perfect," Sarah says, and yawns as she gives her shoulders a rolling twist. "My willingness to work with you isn't based on your performance or lack thereof."

"You said you were pleased with my progress," he reminds her.

"Yes, I am. You've worked hard to find healing. But even if you were struggling or getting nowhere at all, I'd still work with you," she says.

"But _why?_" He cannot understand her reasoning. "What you're saying makes no sense! There would be no point!"

"There would be every point," she says. "I care about you, Greg. You're worth every iota of effort I can put into helping you, and much more besides, even if you never moved a single inch from where you're standing now in your treatment. All I have to give, anything I can do, is yours."

"You're a crazy woman, you know that," he says, and winces at his choice of words, but Sarah is laughing.

"Guilty as charged," she says. "But there's more than anxiety over your report card going on, isn't there?"

"I . . . I don't know how to do this." Now it's out, the one thing that's been chewing away at him for weeks now, even months. "I don't know . . . anything. About people, I mean. Their emotions, their expectations, all of it. It's always been easier to just . . . just run, somehow."

"People are tough to deal with," she says. "So you do what everyone else does."

"And that would be?" he asks when she doesn't go on.

"Fake like mad," she says. "But then you get an extra option. You can come to me and talk about it later. Okay?"

"I don't even know how to fake it," he says.

"Sure you do. Think about it this way. What happens when you're in a pickup band and someone wants to play a song you don't know well?"

"That's different," he says. Sarah shakes her head.

"Same principle. You fill in the stuff you don't know with whatever you can find that fits, and then later on you grab the chart and learn how to play the damn song."

"I suppose that makes you the sheet music in this little metaphor," he grumbles.

"You could say that. I've got a pretty good personal-experience fake book I'd be happy to share, at any rate." She sits up a little. "May I touch you?"

He nods. Her hand comes to rest on his shoulder, far enough back that it won't interfere with his ability to drive. "You'll find your way, Greg. I know it."

_8:30 p.m._

They are home at last, the van has been unloaded and he is stuffing pairs of jeans into his closet when he hears music coming from the office. It has a driving beat and sounds familiar.

After a few minutes his curiosity gets the better of him and he stumps across the living room. As he draws closer he sees through the open door that Sarah is dancing. Not just your basic sedate shimmy in place; she is doing a slow spin and shaking her can along with it, her arms raised and spread wide, swinging back and forth. The source of the music is revealed—Sarah's desktop computer, playing an mp3 file.

"What the hell?" he shouts above the cacophony. She sees him and stops to face him, though she's still moving to the beat.

"Was this on the mix list at Ganges?" she asks. Greg stares at her in utter astonishment.

"You're trying to tell me you got this out of that damn dream? That's not possible!"

She takes his free hand in hers. "It's not only possible, son, it's fabulous!" She laughs and lifts his arm, goes under it to make a graceful turn around him, leans in and kisses his cheek. "Give your girlfriend a call!" she says, then heads out into the living room. Greg watches her go. _She must have looked up the restaurant online and gotten their playlist somehow,_ he thinks. _I'll do some checking later on, when she's upstairs.  
_

"Thanks, _Mom!_" he yells after her. "No more cold pakoras for you!" He gets a shake of the hips in response. On a reluctant chuckle he heads back to the relative peace of his room to follow her advice.


	14. epilogue

_**(A/N: a slight revision of this chapter courtesy VIDZ, to use the proper name for a Honda CRB1000. I thank him for the heads-up and apologize most humbly for the error. –B)**_

_July 22nd_

_7:15 p.m._

Sarah had invited Roz for dinner, something that was happening more frequently nowadays. Roz didn't object; she liked spending time at Sarah's place for a number of reasons, one (and not least) of which was tall, blue-eyed and far too caustic.

As usual, Roz and Greg were washing up when she finally found the courage to speak about something that had bothered her since Sarah had mentioned the general agenda for the next few days.

"If you need some help moving this weekend, I'd like to volunteer." She didn't look at Greg as she spoke. _That way if he says no I won't have to face him, and then maybe we can both pretend I didn't ask. _

Greg didn't say anything. Roz put the last plate in the washer and reached for the silverware. "I just thought . . ." she began, then fell silent. _This is a bad idea. _

"Why?"

Roz placed some spoons in the holder with unnecessary care. "Why what?"

"Why do you want to waste your time on a long, boring ride to a town you've never had any desire to visit?" He was watching her, his gaze impassive. There was a cool detachment there she found unsettling, as if he was weighing her response by some criterion she would never be able to understand. The thought made her hackles go up.

"I didn't offer because I want to see Princeton," she said, and stuffed a half-dozen butter knives next to the spoons. "I thought you could use an extra pair of hands. If you don't want my help, just say so. Don't get all—all judgmental on me."

His brows rose. "I'm using a moving company. How is that judgmental?"

Roz felt her face heat. "You don't want me to go. Fine. Forget I asked." She shut the washer door and locked it, started the cycle, and turned away, only to find she was nose to nose with Greg. Actually it was more like nose to chest. "You're in my way," she said to his tee shirt.

He stayed where he was. "I never said I didn't want you to go," he said. He sounded amused.

"You didn't have to. I figured it out on my own." Her temper was rising. "Maybe my IQ isn't anywhere near as big as yours, but I can draw my own conclusions."

"And reach one that's completely wrong," he said. "Typical touchy female."

"Touchy?" Her voice grew in volume and intensity. "_Touchy_? I am not touchy! How can you even say that! I'm the damn Goddess of Sweet Reason, and don't you forget it!" She paused. He was _laughing. _"Oh, _fuck_ you!" she snarled, and stalked off to the back yard, to pace around Sarah's garden and fulminate.

_God, he's such a jerk! I don't know why I bother! _Roz dropped into the windsor chair finally and stared at her feet, her anger fading as quickly as it rose._ He's never going to let me in. I'm just something to pass the time while he's here. Once he moves on, he won't even remember me._ The thought struck cold.

"Enjoying your little self-pity festival?" Greg spoke from somewhere behind her. She didn't bother to acknowledge him. "You made a number of erroneous assumptions based on one statement."

"Ooooh, five dollar words," she taunted the empty air. "I understood perfectly." _You'll be ashamed of me if we meet anyone you used to work with. I'll embarrass you._

He exhaled slowly through his nose, a sign she knew by now meant his small store of patience was at an end. "I asked why you wanted to go."

"And I told you."

"You told me some of it." He moved around in front of her. She refused to look at him. "Not all of it. Spill."

"Nothing else to tell," she said.

"Stop it." His harsh voice cut like a buzzsaw going through soft wood. "You're throwing a hissy fit. It makes you look stupid, and you're usually not. Stupid, that is," he added, to make it clear. "Tell me the rest."

Roz closed her eyes for a moment. She battled with the strong desire to make him wrong and the knowledge that he was correct-she was being less than truthful. Her native honesty won out finally.

"All right." She sighed. "I'd like to see what your life there is—was like."

"Ahah," he said. She raised her face to his, ready to blast him, only to find his eyes glittering with a teasing light. Quickly she looked away.

"Oh, go to hell," she muttered. "I'm not weird for being curious."

"Didn't say you were." He was smirking at her, she knew it. "Still want to spend the weekend with me in Princeton?"

She folded her arms and glared at the woods beyond him. "Get lost."

He came a little closer. "You'll go." The confidence in his tone irked her, but she ignored the provocation. "By the way, you're not getting the front seat. I always ride shotgun."

"Baloney," she said, just to give him a hard time. "We'll flip a quarter for it."

"The hell you say!" His obvious amusement made a lie of his scowl. "That would be the camel's nose in the tent. Forget it."

"Oh yeah? And what would come next?" She got to her feet, struggled with her pride for a few moments, then cast it aside and put her arms around him in a loose embrace. _So what if he does leave me behind eventually. At least we're together right now. I can live with that. _She knew it wasn't true, but she let it stand.

"Total anarchy," he said, his focus moving downward, where her hands rested on his hips. She'd noticed that before—anytime he was touched he had to look at the place where contact was made. "Horrors galore. Dogs and cats living together . . . too terrifying to think about." He gave a mock shudder. Roz smacked his flank gently, let her hand move around to cup his cheek. He tensed, then relaxed a bit.

"Are you copping a feel?" He sounded shocked. "Little miss 'let's get to know each other first' is making a move?"

"You have a nice ass. I can't help myself. Shut up." She gave him a gentle squeeze. "We'll ask Sarah. Whatever she decides goes."

"You say that because you think she'll agree with you, but you have no evidence to back up your conclusion," Greg said. "Bet she'll tell you it's my spot."

"Bet she won't." Roz gave him a challenging look. "Want to put some money where your mouth is, buster?"

"I'd like to put my mouth somewhere, all right . . ." he said in a lascivious undertone, and she couldn't help but snicker.

"Yeah, sure. I hear a lot of cheap talk." She kissed him. "See you in the morning," she said softly.

"You could share my bed," he said, sounding hopeful. "That way Sarah won't have to wash up another set of sheets."

"Aren't you considerate." She brushed her lips over his, tempted. "Not yet," she whispered. He sighed. Slowly his arms came up to hold her, his touch tentative.

"How am I supposed to sleep now?"

"You'll find a way," she said, half-amused, half-repentant at his reply. She slid her hands up and down his back. "I'm . . . I'm not teasing you."

"It's a good thing I know that," he growled.

"Hey, it's just as bad for me," she said. "I want you too, you know."

"Mmm." He didn't sound convinced. Roz smiled.

"You've got excellent architecture," she said. "I can't wait to do some exploring."

"You must have a jones for broken-down shacks," he said. Roz caught the echo of old pain in his words.

"I like classic form," she said, attempting to offer comfort in truth. "You've got it, _amante_, trust me."

Greg gave her a long, steady look. His blue eyes were bright and searching. "_Amante_ . . ." he said, drawing out the word. "I'm not your lover yet."

Roz only smiled. She gave him a final lingering kiss and left him, standing alone in the shadowed kitchen.

_July 23rd_

_4 a.m._

"You get the front seat going to Princeton. Roz gets the front seat going home." Sarah tossed her overnight bag in the wayback. "Problem solved."

"Problem _not _solved," Greg said. "Shotgun's mine when Gene's not here."

Sarah gave him a narrow glance. He looked annoyed, but that was probably an act; he could be hard to read at times.

"I thought you'd like having the option to stretch out after working hard," she said, her tone mild.

"You're trying to avoid a confrontation," he shot back. "If you don't give the front seat to Roz she'll be upset."

Sarah picked up the empty cooler and set it beside her bag. "I'm not trying to avoid anything," she said, careful not to smile. "Duke it out between the two of you. Just be ready to go in fifteen minutes. We have a long drive and a lot of work ahead of us."

When she came out of the house with the last load of necessities it was to find Roz sitting in the back and House in front. Without comment Sarah got in, put on her seat belt, started the engine and headed down the drive.

An hour later they stopped at a gas station with a mini-mart and loaded up the tank and the cooler. At least she and Greg did; Roz was stretched out on the seat, asleep.

"Probably faking it," Greg said as they moved through the aisles. He grabbed several bags of cheddar- and pizza-filled Combos and put them in Sarah's basket.

"She's a working woman," Sarah said, debating over Dove milk or dark chocolate bars. "She was up at five yesterday and didn't finish until twelve hours later. Probably didn't stop for lunch either. Kyle pushes her to do too much."

Greg reached in around her, snagged a handful of both bars and tossed them in the basket. "What do you mean, this guy pushes her?"

"What I said." Sarah threw in some Almond Joys for good measure. "She's not pouting, she's tired."

"Then why did she want to come with us?" Greg sounded baffled. Sarah shook her head at his obliviousness.

"She wants to be with you," she said. "Would y'all hand me some pepitas please? The plain ones."

Greg obliged. "She's got better things to do with her time," he muttered. "Like get some decent sleep."

"She wants to be with you," Sarah said again. "Come on, let's find some pop and iced tea."

"We need little chocolate donuts," Greg said. Sarah chuckled.

"Breakfast of champions," she said. "I wouldn't object to a sausage biscuit either."

When they returned to the van Roz sat up, rubbing her eyes. "Any caffeine?" she asked, sounding a little plaintive.

"Not for you," Greg said before Sarah could speak. He held out a bottle of apple juice, ignoring her puzzled look.

"Why?" Roz made no move to take the juice.

"You didn't get enough rest yesterday," he snapped. "Caffeine will only make things worse. Drink the damn juice and go back to sleep."

Roz stared at him. "Okay," she said, brows raised as she accepted the bottle. He ignored her and took a sausage and egg sandwich from the bag of breakfast goodies sitting in the well between his and Sarah's seats.

"Food too," he said, and tossed her the sandwich. Roz fielded it and glanced at the label on the wrapper.

"Thanks." She smiled a little. "I didn't know you cared."

Greg opened a box of doughnut holes and popped two of them into his mouth. "I don't," he said, chewing noisily. Sarah hid a smile at the note of defiance in his tone. She chose a sandwich and unwrapped it.

"There are extra pillows in the wayback for anyone who needs them," she said.

"I'm not proud," Roz said, and set aside her breakfast. As she turned to search for a pillow Sarah caught Greg watching Roz, his expression inscrutable. He glanced at Sarah and then shifted his gaze to the passenger side window.

_12 p.m_.

"This is a really decent apartment."

Greg looks at Roz, who is standing in the middle of his living room after having brought in boxes and packing tape. She's inspecting everything, her expression one of inquisitiveness. He braces himself for a barrage of questions, but she doesn't say anything else.

"It's a place to live," he says after a moment. "Not mine any more now."

Roz glances at him. "Where do you want to start?" she says finally.

They work their way through his books and journals. Roz is efficient, quick and thorough, doing the legwork while he puts things in boxes. At the end of two hours half the shelves have been cleared. Sarah is packing his table service, such as it is, and cooking utensils. She and Roz exchange a word or two in passing, but otherwise it's quiet. Greg thinks of putting on the stereo, but it's been taken apart and he never even considered a kitchen radio. _If I ever get another place of my own I'll have one_. The thought is mildly surprising.

"We're gonna need more boxes," Roz is saying. "Is there a supermarket or a liquor store anywhere close?"

It's on the way back from the Acme that he thinks about taking the Fireblade out of storage. It's not a new thought, he's considered it from time to time, but now seems to be the opportune moment. _I could ride it home. _Flying down the highway on a warm summer evening . . . a rush of excitement fills him. _Have to check it out, it's been sitting for a while. Need to run it by Goldman too. _He frowns. Where did that last thought come from? He's an adult. He can do as he pleases.

Still, when he comes back to the apartment he tosses a couple of boxes into the living room. "There's more in the van," he announces, and goes into the kitchen where Sarah is wrapping stemware in newspaper.

"I'm riding the bike back home," he says. Sarah pauses with a wine glass in her hand. She gives him a shrewd look.

"You have a helmet and leathers?"

"Yes, _Mom_," he says, heavy on the sarcasm. She nods again, unperturbed.

"Okay."

A little disgruntled at her easy acquiescence, he limps into the living room and resumes his spot on the couch. Roz brings over a stack of trade paperbacks.

"You have a motorcycle?" Her voice is quiet.

"Only room for one on a CBR1000," he says—not really a truthful statement, but he has his reasons for saying it. She doesn't reply, only goes back to the shelf. Greg puts the paperbacks in the box, watching her. When she turns around he drops his gaze, making a big deal out of arranging the books to fit.

"So I get the front seat after all." She sounds impassive.

"Goody for you," he says. "Need more books here, the box is half empty."

She comes over with an armful of soft-covers. "'blades are awesome. We'll have to do some riding when we get home."

"You have a bike?" He does look up at her this time, doubly surprised at her statement.

"My cousin's old Honda. It's a '72 CB 500. I just had the carbs cleaned. No rust, and it runs pretty good. And you can sit pillion." She smirks at him, her green eyes gleaming. "But only if you make it worth my while." She sets the books on the coffee table and goes to get more. Greg sits there for a moment, then gives himself a mental shake and puts books in the box, no longer caring if they fit or not. He has other, more enjoyable things to think about at the moment, and not only the knowledge that he's taking his sweet ride home.

_7 p.m._

"I think we're about two-thirds of the way done." Sarah pushes a wilted curl from her cheek and surveys the bedroom. "Just the bathroom and anything in here you don't want to take back with you."

"Dinner first," Greg says. "Then we bag it for a few hours." He glances at Roz but says nothing further.

"Sounds good to me." Roz stretches, her back arching. "What's available around here?"

They stop on the way to the motel to pick up some Thai takeout. Without seeming to do so Greg watches Roz, who comes in with him to order. She doesn't zone out or disengage; she takes an interest in her surroundings, to the point where she asks one of the servers behind the counter about some items listed on the menu. They're still chatting when Greg taps her on the shoulder.

"Grab the food and let's go," he says, and heads to the van.

'What was that about?" Roz says much later, after they've munched their way through fresh rolls, panang curry, lad-nar, ginger beef, chicken ka-prow, pineapple fried rice and plum duck. Now they are sitting on pillows on the floor, propped against Roz's bed, stuffed to the gills and watching wrestling on a muted tv. Sarah is sleeping on the bed behind them, out cold if her soft snores are any indication.

"You mean you flirting with the cute young guy behind the counter?" Greg sips his beer. "Don't know. You tell me. You're the one who kept me waiting for hours while you gave him the eye."

Roz gives him a dry look. "I don't do come-ons," she says. He lowers his bottle.

"Because Mommy does?"

"That isn't all of it." She smoothes a hole in the knee of her jeans in an absent manner. "Anyway, I was just curious about the differences between the curries."

"You've been leading me on for ages," he says, incredulous at this brazen lie. "Last night-"

"I'm not teasing you. Said it once—I want to get to know you, and vice versa." Her smile glimmers in the flickering light. Greg leans over a little to look straight into her eyes. She holds his gaze, steady and open. When he bends that last degree and kisses her she returns it without hesitation. At the end she says "I meant what I said. You don't have to test me." She doesn't sound upset though.

"Where's the fun in that?" he says, and kisses her again.

_July 24th_

_2 p.m._

The movers had just finished locking down the back door on the truck when a motorcycle came gliding down the street. It was a Honda in battered but still bright Repsol colors, one side marred by a large scrape. Roz shaded her eyes and followed the bike, watching as it pulled in behind the van and sat idling. The rider wore leathers and a helmet, the tinted visor raised up. She walked over to him, admiring the ease with which he carried himself. _He's different, _she thought. _More confident. More . . . himself._

"Nice wheels," she said. He looked away.

"Thanks."

"Okay, then. See you at home," she said when he fell silent.

"What, no dire warnings to be careful or drive safe?" He sounded derisive.

"You obviously know how to lay down a bike if that road rash is anything to go by, so you don't need me to nag you." Roz stepped back. "Have fun. Eat a bug or two for me."

Greg's head lifted toward her. After a moment he nodded, a crooked smile revealing a dimple in his cheek. He put down his visor, revved the engine, looked in the rear view mirror, then moved out into the street and was on his way. Roz stood watching until he was lost in the distance. Then she walked to the apartment house, a part of her wishing she was going with him.

_11:30 p.m._

When her phone rang Sarah checked the caller ID, then answered. Roz glanced over at her, brows raised.

_Greg, _Sarah said silently. Roz nodded, checked the side mirror, passed a truck and turned up the music on the CD player a little.

"Hey, how's it going?" Sarah said. She put the phone on speaker.

"Where are you?" Greg paused. "You're listening to Hendrix?" He sounded surprised.

"We're an hour from the state line," Sarah said. "Good ride so far?"

"That's 'Red House'," Greg said. "Not the Woodstock version, though. That's from Valleys of Neptune."

"We stopped at the Record Exchange," Sarah said, fighting not to chuckle at the chagrin in Greg's voice. "And Hoagie Haven. I bought two bushels of peaches at Solebury House too, in case you're interested."

"That means you two won't get home until tomorrow morning," Greg said. "Did you think of that while you were spending Gene's money?"

"I make my own paycheck, thank you very much," Roz said.

"We'll be fine. If we have to stop and grab an hour's sleep I'll call you," Sarah said.

"Don't do the rest areas on the Extension," Greg said. "It's not safe."

Roz made an unsuccessful attempt to hide a chuckle.

"I heard that," Greg said. Roz rolled her eyes.

"Hey, I didn't nag _you_. Can't we have a little fun?" she said in a loud voice. "Don't bogart that spliff, Sare. The night's still young."

"Hardy-har-har, that's so amusing," Greg said. "Keep an eye peeled for staties outside Scranton. I'm in Binghamton now."

"All right. See you when we see you," Sarah said. "Peaches for breakfast, though probably not the ones you're thinking of."

Greg sighed. "_Jesus_." He hung up. Sarah ended the call and looked at Roz, who raised her right hand. They gave each other a solemn high five and broke into laughter.

_July 25th_

_5:30 a.m._

"Hey, we're here." Sarah's soft voice brought Roz out of her doze. She yawned, then unbuckled the seat harness and sat up. In the faint pre-dawn light it was just possible to see Greg's bike parked in the extra spot off the drive. _He's okay._ A profound relief crept into her tired mind.

"We'll take care of unloading a little later," Sarah was saying. "Let's sleep in and have a late breakfast, we've earned it."

"Cool." Roz opened her door and hopped out, stretching stiff muscles. She took her overnight bag from the back seat and slung it over her shoulder, picked up Sarah's as well and headed for the front door. As she approached it opened to reveal Greg. It was obvious he'd climbed out of bed; he wore a disreputable pair of old sweats and a tee shirt and his hair was tousled. Roz watched him as she came up the step and stopped in front of him.

"Well, we're back," she said after a short silence. Greg reached out and relieved her of Sarah's bag, then unhooked hers from her shoulder. She was about to turn away when he took a step forward and kissed her. His lips were warm and a little chapped. Then he retreated within the house to disappear into the dim interior. Roz watched him go.

_This is home because he's here, _she thought, and then _I love him._

"Coming in?" Sarah stopped next to her on the step, weighed down with full shopping bags. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Roz said, not tired at all now. "I'm good." She followed Sarah into the house and closed the door behind her.


End file.
